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Ballet on a Bed of Nails
They gracelessly dance around the circle
of their tribulation
Fools befriending gravity will soon meet the ground
while usurping with jubilation
Stringed and pulled facet of thought
just sponges squeezed out of all their colors
and rehydrated with the hues of fresh leaves
and blood
Shut up and obey or we’ll shoot, again?
The glory of flowers stopping bullets, forgotten
The power that compelled the thieves to flee, temporary
The extraordinary history – transitory
There’s not much to see here
Just the grim plot they are twisting
that will cause everyone - not just the mindless –
to gyrate on a bed of nails –
thirty-six years in the making
