Swung about, and spun in turn,
this one always moves me.
I’m usually still spinning, spinning,
days after the dance is ended.
Once, it was a novel thing.
Nightmares like honey, filling
silver spoons with medicine.
Sweet but regretful notions.
Again, it was a beautiful thing.
We’d finally hit our stride, this time.
I couldn’t sleep for days,
while I was going through the motions.
Then a different taste was left,
imparted by other storms and songs.
The dance lacked character, flavour,
it lacked the decency of joy.
Round and about, the same story goes.
Again, the dance was danced.
Barely started, yet halfway gone,
a night of strange circumstances.
Talking sweet nothings with strangers,
and finally finding ancient bonds.
A lot can be remembered, or forgot,
but the dance lives on in dreamspace.