Hussein Shariffe :Dancer

Amazing how he moves

Flies into the air

The body curls upon itself

Like an inverted coma.

Black on black

Angrily clambering

Unfurls again

A shaft of white light

To land on rose petals

Precise and gentle




The moon is dumb

It never spoke to me anyway

Tonight its bland face looks tarnished

Brushed over by racing clouds.

Heavy laden with moisture

I shall never see.

So I shall remain parched

For another season or two

Or maybe three.

I have no name


Or insignia

No Godly ichors

Only air

In my veins.

Icy cold,


Embalmed in a marble tomb.

Will some heat melt it?

Will it gush and spout?

I do not know.

Waiting is my game.

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