Too Fast Slow Dance of Death

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Fast.  It is all too fast.
All Swirls Around And Around,
The Too Fast Cyclone Life.
No Escape From
My Swirling Sluggish
Body That Quits,
And Stalls, And
Longs To Linger
In the Limbo Of Lost Love.
Leaving Tasks
Works, Loves,
Children, All Unfinished.
I Am A Slow Sorrow
Caught In My Own
Slowing Sibilant Song,
A Droning Hum Countered
Against The Too Fast
Swirling Star Song Symphony.
The Light Dance, Too fast
For this Dark Dreamless
Dreaming Sleepless Sleep.
All Growth Too fast.
Thought Too Fast.
Song-Lines All Gone.
Decay  Too Fast.
Dreamtime Too Slow.
Flying Forever Too Slowly.
I am Too Fast For Self
To Know.  A Dreamless
Dreamtime Comes The
Too Fast End.
Never Awake,
Slowly Reaching,
Forever Awakening Too Slow.
Too Slow.
Swept Along Too Fast
In The Rushing River Dance
 Of  My Dreaming Illusion Of Slow.
All Unfinished.
 Nothing Complete.
Alone, I Slowly Pass
Through The Too Fast
Slow Dance of Death.
Too Fast I Die.
Funneled Into The
Too Fast Whirlpool,
My Slowing Painful Body.
Dreaming Too Fast Of
The Tasks
Works, Loves,
Children, All Unfinished.
Repose Too Fast.
Slowly I Am Unwound
In  A  Too Fast Gyre,
The Too Fast
Slow Dance Of Death.
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Bear   11.25.2013
ⓒ Bearspawprint 2013
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NOVEMBER

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max richter – november

I found this music  via:      http://poesravenlady.wordpress.com/category/music-i-love/    This page is in a blog with page after page of poignant posts.   NOVEMBER is not amongst her selections, but the begnning of a journey that led to it is.   Poesravenlady homepage:  http://poesravenlady.wordpress.com/

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The problem with NOVEMBER

And all of the seasons

Is they end too soon.

Just when I begin to be immersed …. it’s over.

I can actually dance with-in November.

There are no sudden jarring movements required.

Perhaps I don’t appear to be the Dance,

So much, to my troupe of trees and fog and

The few critters still awake, perhaps,

If they are  judgmental types,

I look more as if I am tottering and lurching

Rather  than swaying in elegant swirling pirouettes.

I pretend the graceful eddies in the fog

And the ripples of movement in my clothing

Are the dance I hear in my muscles and bones …

No more a viewers comedy.

Which is fine.

When I dance

I do not perform.

Alone, I Am Dance.

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Bear

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Agawela finds moonlight in the swamp      by bearspawprint

https://bearspawprint.wordpress.com/2013/08/21/agawela/

Agawela = Old Woman