Poetry / [their twisting curling]

their twisting curling
mildly erotic dances
thrill me with their
gaseous yet liquid flow

i sit mesmerised
by the impossibility
of what i see

for no human being
was ever blessed
with such flexibility
as is the stuff
of these dancers
and most definitely
even if we were
no magic could
make us as graceful

the night sky
twinkles and winks
behind their mysterious veils
as shapes shift
my spirits lift
so ends the battle of wills

white and grey and
slow and quick
the artless curls
the endless whirls
born in fire
raised in air
dead in earth and water

weeping from my hands
its like holding sand
it trickles and slips
from my hopeless grip

smooth and slick
to the eye and touch
the choke of death
to the mouth and throat
its silent soundless siren call
has made many a great man fall

an object of fear
wonder
addiction
of course it demands recognition

it is smoke

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