The Dance of Life
Embracing the Rhythm and Flow of Life Through the Dance of Existence
Amidst the chaos and the strife,
There is a rhythm to this life.
A dance we all must learn to do,
With steps both old and brand new.
The music starts, the tempo rises,
And we begin to move with surprises.
The twists and turns, the dips and spins,
As the melody flows and never ends.
Sometimes the beat is slow and steady,
And we move with grace and elegance ready.
Other times it's fast and frantic,
And we struggle to keep up and not panic.
But in the midst of all the motion,
We find moments of pure emotion.
The laughter and the tears we share,
As we move together without a care.
For in this dance, we find our connection,
To each other and to our own reflection.
We learn to trust and to let go,
And to embrace the highs and the lows.
And when the music finally ends,
We take a breath and make amends.
For in this dance, we find our way,
To love and joy, come what may.
So let us all join hands and sway,
As we dance this life, day by day.
For in this dance, we find our soul,
And learn to make the broken whole.
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At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly3 days ago in Horror
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