PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Alone in the rehearsal room, he danced---

shirtless, barefoot, clad in pastel lavender

sweats, his long hair swirling in cascades as

he moved, ennfolding time and space around his

poise.  The music of silence accompanied him.

(In the darkened corridor outside, the hater lurked.

From his darkened hell-bound soul, the hatred lunged.)

Alone in the rehearsal room, the dancer died---

savagely beaten, then fatally stabbed, he bled out,

blood profusely spurting propelled by his slowing pulse,

tremors passing through his once agile limbs, until the

final stillness.  The dirge of silence accompanied him.

Those who loved and admired his artistry wept for the heinous horror of it.

One who had loved him intimately wept for the absence no life could fill again.

Slain for expressing the truth of his life, he passed into and through death,

entering at once into the splendor of Heaven, welcomed by the One Who had been

slain for expressing the Truth of Life, and Who passed through Death, shattering it.

Starward

[*/+/^]