By Christos Floratos
How can you tell a gymnast to be careful?
Why, anything but danger would be a little dull.
Scamper up the rope, dribble the pole.
Feet ahead; toes curled ready for embrace
(against the dirt blue).
Performance is our virtue; love is what they grimace.
What other purpose is the thrill than to be
Higher than God.
Mt. Olympus has dazed us with aromatherapy.
Oracles scatter seizing our souls.
We only commune with the Deadly Seven.
I do not expect the proletariat to understand.
What you share is a pillow,
My offering is more than a simple piggy-bank.
Our stake is within the riptide, wherever it may take us.
Perhaps through the vast oceans where the unknown lies;
Though we may ask above, what is below we may never know.
Throw away deaf ears for those bona fide will confide.
Don’t be afraid to gleam into the light above.
The water is our bed so scream into the pillow.
Vulnerability is our right swipe, fitting as a glove.
Though we are frightened of how it leaks,
I trust whatever agenda we both hide,
is so we can dance along the strings of mystiques,
for our skin may be as tough as hide,
and I do not fear the nails of Dominique.
Expectation is their gospel verse.
We won’t follow their structures laid before.
Abandon the billboards! Dust off their seeds.
A tight hand is laxer than an open casket.
Where we can laugh at our demise,
Sing obtusely and while impulse drives you up.
Why be afraid of daises, watch me grab them.
© Christos Floratos 2019