The sun is love. The lover, a speck circling the sun. A Spring wind moves to dance any branch that isn’t dead.
I have lived on the lip of insanity, wanting to know reasons, knocking on a door. It opens. I’ve been knocking from the inside!
Dance, when you’re broken open. Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance, when you’re perfectly free.
Questions
Why do we live in the past when the present is so precious? Who or what are we protecting, and from what, reality or fantasy? Is avoidance and denial the answer, lulling ourselves back into the safety of sleep where the projection on the screen of life fades and is once again delegated to the past? Isn’t 36 years of practice long enough? Aren’t we ready for the real deal?
Is the “Summer Summer of Love” a possibility or just a dream?
I want to Dance until the blisters on my toes bleed like my heart.
Is the Summer of love a possibility or just a fantasy?
Maybe reality in another life.
