The Spot

Some days she dreams
of dancing nakedly
in a writhing spoon
lapped and ladled,
all osmotic,
an over-sunken swoon.

And then too on her other days
her breath his hardly there
and then she cannot stand or write
and lungs are dreaming air.

And then again on other days
her paints and colors call
and then the task of gathering
depletes just down the hall.

This in and out
and up and down
and always never more
and what it is that has her caught
is not at all before.

Who can know
and what the weight
and how to plan her day
when all there is a falling
and there's nothing in her way?

A blank page looms
before her upon the open stage
and life would have a mistress
if her body disengaged.

Perhaps a new solution,
a cure or alteration
becomes the altar of her fate
and ends this sublimation.

And in between on wholesome days
when winds and skies collide,
her voice can touch the deepest spot,
the one I have inside.

runningturtle87