She Can Dance! Poem by Brian Freeman

Why fight the inspiration?

The inclination takes hold!

The fear runs wild!

The gallops are bullets aimed at the instinct to be different.

The ubiquitous waters are calmer than the Avant-garde flood.
Few submerge themselves in it, some stay dry, others tip toe in the say so creek.

Look at them dance in the rain drops corrected by politics! The governors holy water.

There's a waterfall where the liquid-crystal pool cascades down into a rimless mortar created by the state of nature. The drops are drums beat by the aqua player in the orchestra of Anima Mundi.
You feel it, don't you? You hear it!

The commands from the band of Poseidon. His trident plays a tune so original.
It ripples in gods natatorium. Even the lord taps his feet.
We hear her beats of thunder!

Look at her dance! She's marvelous! A ballerina all her own. She defines herself in the storms of her choosing. The rapids admire her. She's the Avant-garde rainmaker! Her pirouette is equiste on the black-tar streets of her desires.

Look at them, they've stopped dancing!
They've retired to the confines of conformity.
They can see her whirl through the uninspired, hackneyed windows.
They draw the shades down.
The only sound heard is the faucet drip from the humdrum sink in the corner.