Dance Until We Drift Away

The dance before me, held within my heart and circumscribed to be a latent barrier to my efforts just to dream, came barreling into my chest with great force and little compromise.  I could feel it (that old dance again) drilling its way into my soul to either permeate the core or to leave me haggard and abandoned in a corner on the floor.  

I felt the heat from bodies pulsing in the heart of who I am - the rapid thump-thump-thumping in a rhythmical sort of way was reminiscent of my march into the dawn that cold and fate-less night wherein our hands, two cherished things, were intertwined as were our legs and almost anything else that we could manage to entangle in the midst of the others skin and limbs and groans.  

A dance - more fitfully, a dream - made of our desires and our efforts to be free, was more than circled movements, pushes, pulls, and all the like; no, it was made of something real and less-imagined; something that, without great effort, could be recognized as beautiful and elegant and rare by the most undistinguished and rudimentarily-trained and nondescript of passersby.  

The world, without its Fates aligned may laugh and call the nighttime day, but we, the dancers in that night are quite aware of what to say when thus confronted by the test of nighttime versus day, "My friends," our words, or as we thus begin them, just to say that "we are neither champions of light or dark or day, nor do we claim the darkness' friend (cold night) in any of these ways.  We are simply mortal, and in this habitat's display, we shall forever dance in tangles here until we drift away."