If there were days enough...
I would learn this Dance,
to dance with you.

The flood light becomes our own sunrise...
like Icarus - we ascend to the heavens,
like Icarus - only to fall to the earth again...
and again.

This is my dream...
our feet shifting the dust,
ancient and coarse,
cold and splintered planks, worn and true...
do they selfishly hide the passion and words from years past?
Or simply crude constructs of oak...and yew.

Another stage to attend Sir Will!
where genius rings true...
and the plagiarist is found and scorned.

Gnostic flames (our path embellished)
illuminate our face,
certain to displace the darkest of shadows...
while leaving enough to hide our scars,
and portend any claim to grace.

This was the Dance,
when steps and twists and turns,
left us both to hope and chance,
and we knew the Light - never to leave -
all the while the wax and wick...
spits, shuffles, contorts and burns.

....much like this Dance.

Gregory.