Stationary are we in a room of black
Slowly
Surely
A sconce is lit
Then two
Then four
Peering are we to the four corners
Whose light of fire appears dancing in apparent space
Nothing below or above
No light save for the four torches
I speak and you catch me
En garde! Touche!
You are right this night
In this regard
I don’t want to change you
To this I admit touche!
Yet, be it known, I too am me and will always be
A practitioner all my own
Shall we dance kind Sir?
The harvest approaches and we only reap what we have sown ~ Maggie ~ September 17, 2009 @ 1:13 a.m. EST
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