The Dancer

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

This dancer, this one dancer never will

Retire, but do not blame him since he can’t.

The older that he grows, his dance will spill

Along across eternity.  The chant

Of angels timelessly goes on and on

So he has music he can tap dance to.

The fading Fred Astaire fades not.  The dawn

Of dancing came with him and then a slew

Of steps has carried forward age to age,

From eon unto eon . . . since . . . he . . . must . . .

Drag on.  Because he loves, he cannot rage

Against the trap he’s in.  His soul is cussed.

  His name is Allah and Jehovah, Christ,

    And to escape this god was sacrificed.