My dance

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  • Love
  • ,
  • Poetry
  • ,
  • Poem

    My dance

    the music plays
    i take a step
    it is my turn to dance
    the music keeps playing
    my love is in the crowd
    i close my eyes
    the past flys in
    were in a field
    we sing with the wind
    his hand in mine
    his hand is slipping
    just hold on
    he falls
    my love knows nothing
    nothing but the smell of flowers
    I hear the wind
    his voice
    tears run down our face as our eyes meet
    he holds me in his arms
    he tells me he is sorry
    'i love you' he cries
    my dance ends
    but my love continues

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    The true philosopher and the true poet are one, and a beauty, which is truth, and a truth, which is beauty, is the aim of both.

    Ralph Waldo Emerson, American Poet (1803-1882)

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