The Last Fancy Dancer Poem by Kurt Philip Behm

It's a witch out of season,
on the seventh day

And you hear reasons chanting,
while running away

from you
from you

In her brew stirs an answer,
where memories lay

And the last fancy dancer
burns, looking to play

with you
with you

Your destiny boiling,
a cauldron of doubt

With fear running over
her coven to shout

at you
at you

Until spells of transcendence,
a broom handled waltz

Free dreams that start dancing,
through dungeons of fault

for you
for you

(Las Vegas, Nevada: January,2020)
‘Rock Lyrics #122'