A Different Kind of Dance

My legs, though functional, are to a dancer what tone deaf ears are to a crooner.
My feet, though sensitive, are a dance floor’s disgrace.
While my bones and joints cannot syncopate with metronome and rhythm,

Whirling dervishes – words – assemble in the hall of my mind.
I arrange them, I check them for rhythm,

I test how well they work together and apart,

I’m a choreographer of words. 
You cannot see them couple and group with each and one another.

It’s a dance so special to me and so mundane to you, as only I see it. 
What a dancer does with the pulsing rhythm in her limbs, 

I do with the living words in my mind. 

We’re both fine artists differing in our medium of expression. 

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Published by

susannacorreya99

Guts of brass, heart of glass.

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