Déjà vu
Sailing through long forgotten passages,
to familiar sways, of so many faces.
Danced into a “rhumba” crowd, with drums,
and castagnettes
and an ocasional turkish flute.
Ripples of crimson, and not
a chord on edge.
All flowing out of one
and back along the tides
with ancient rules
and not at all like black and white…
to leave you breathless; wondering
how the tread, now left your hands, had come to be
and where it ends
or
how it all began.
Sailing through long forgotten passages,
to familiar sways, of so many faces.
Danced into a “rhumba” crowd, with drums,
and castagnettes
and an ocasional turkish flute.
Ripples of crimson, and not
a chord on edge.
All flowing out of one
and back along the tides
with ancient rules
and not at all like black and white…
to leave you breathless; wondering
how the tread, now left your hands, had come to be
and where it ends
or
how it all began.