The Dance

I wrote this last semester during one of my classes.

Copyright Reagan Dyer 2014

A mash of mixed up words
all the music coming strong and fast,
the pain thick on my tongue.
But on and on we dance.

The world is all become red
with white-hot flashing lights.
The voices have become a blur
that spill out in the night.

I want to say something,
but the words die on my lips.
Do I deserve this thing?
The world begins to tip.

A nightly tradition we carry out,
spinning round and round again.
The tune beats inside my head,
each note a throb of pain.

But while the music carries on,
I know I have no chance
to duck his flying, bloody fist
before we break this deadly dance.

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