The Dance
We find our feet through adventurous movement;
experienced falls strengthen our grip on the floor.
We swing with our hips towards new ground,
in hopes of finding a glare that meets a gaze.
Warm fingers clasp; before cold with gaps and now a gay maze.
The hot grip, burns of passion for just one song.
We reluctantly loosen once a tight grip,
which now has gone calloused and tired.
We share a last secret look, the one we keep between ourselves and no-one-else.
Again cold... Fingers curl back to the palm.
We’ll forever share that warm stare and the hands that had that one dance.
This poem intends to be a metaphor for life. It describes a shared passionate dance.
