the hardest part of any act of art
her dance was not the dry lands
the arid sand dragons undulating under a full moon
her dance was not the cascading waters
the sure and subtle water dragon undulation in the creek bed
her dance was not the fires of the desires
the sensual and glowing display of want and need
her dance was the wind
the way the leaves chance dance as they hiss and sigh
in cathedrals of hiss whisper
she was the rose burgeon in the night of the garden
she was the dangling rose colored ribbon turning and rippling
pale and dark under a sky gone cold
she was every woman who has ever lived and loved
her every movement
every pause and gyration
was a prayer in a language of the Heart
and . . .
and perchance the hardest part of any act of art
her dance was not for me . . .
--William C. Burns Jr.
my life? . . .
throw in a few flying zombies
and you'd have an episode of Dr. Who