First Dance

I dance headfirst onto the moonlit river,
swollen stiff by Night’s deep sting.
I step out of pain, and anger, and grief,
a collision of psychotic esteem.
I dance, though my feet are bloodied and sore,
for the body is easily ignored.
I step from the anguish this moment presents,
and I will dance till it is no more.

Night.
Darkness lingers.
I have collapsed and the spell has past.
My body is broken, yet my mind shines clear.

There is no moon, though I stare wide-eyed
and hoping for a star.
So terribly far and yet warm and near,
I hear a campfire crackle.

My senses alive, my body returns,
and as if in deep sighing,
my corpse trembles.
With great effort I sit and examine existence,
though my stomach grumbles with greed.
I rise and must grab a nearby branch,
for these feet will no longer hold me.

A cry, from behind, breaks through my abyss.
A call, “Who is there?” out of terror or worry
(or both as would I turned around).
I respond, lungs on fire, “It is I, though alone.”
then with ice, “I am free of my thoughts,
though blood soaks the snow.”
My soul alights at the thought.
“Go home, young stranger,”
my companion replies,
“for the wood and the cold
will break body and mind.”
Silence, the suspicious stranger, delights in these moments
as conversation disappears into the night.

However, strangers scare easily and soon the voice returns.
“I know not who you are, nor your purpose in this wood,
but I am of good heart and His eye never strays.
If shelter you seek, my cabin lies near.
If hunger clouds your mind, I have small fish to eat.
If you are hurt, cry out and I will help you to your feet.
If ill you seek, go home, sore demon,
for your spells are not welcome here.

What then am I in this puzzling maze,
my home a thousand miles, at least, away?
I surely am starved and my pantry is empty,
but masculine pride dispels this temptation.
Are the welts on my feet, soaked fully in slush,
terms worthy of injury’s call?
Demon, so sharp and spell-binding a word,
am I human or beast or some denizen
from the pit below?
My dance was of grief, self-destructive at most.
If spells are made thus, he should have no concern.

In the still I finally shout my reply,
“Thank you kindly good sir,
for your offer of plenty
and may He who you speak of smile bright.
I am but a traveler disturbed by the night,
and my journey merely fancies in a fool’s plight.
Rest safe, gentle soul, for your kindness protects
from the gambling of those down below.”
Then further away, an echo so shy,
“A fool gains strength in Fate’s blind eye.”

Fate indeed, I am able to shudder
before I sink back into my madness.
No cold, no blood, no spell, no dance,
only the comfort of dreams.