Wednesday, August 11, 2010


The old woodsman who left no trace
All he left us was a book
But we cling to it while we slip away

When you can’t tell the dancer from the dance
She gets into a groove
But it’s the music
She’s moving
Swallowed by a flame so soft and without a name
The fire that consumes the deed

It’s just the art
It’s not about the living
These two ideas sometimes together never seen
But go a little deeper
You might find the space where they finally meet.

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