Dance is the emotional expression of life. The cadence of the platoon. The tribal ones who rally for a moment to hear their elders chanting in the distant wind. The plea for peace from the harshness of the street. Dance is the misinterpretation of meaning trapped in the norm of religion. Wings of freedom demand dance to set the heart at ease in the forest and jungles of a mind trapped in time.
Dance is the choreography of the painter's pallet released in Tahquamenon Falls. The spirit driven soul to survive the wind and cold. Dance is the child's moment to gleam in the shadow of. Mr. Bojangles. Dance is the commune of spirit.
Dance is generational the story told without words, but through actions that reflect the culture, the influence, the life of those who've stretched a hand to share the story of ancestry. Dance is the transcendental womb song. The tear that flows from the pores and eyes of the one, who slays his fellow man in the congruent moment of destiny, that grants one life and the other death.
Dance, the cobbler's shoe, lost in the field of a new generation. Those who fail to see, the art upon the foot, restored by the artisan, who understands the dance of movement. The shoeshine man told the tale of hard times, but kept a smile on his face despite the task at hand. Let not the stories be forgotten of a bygone era. The street sweepers moving in unison to retain jobs in desperate times.
Dance is the purest reflection of self.
Dance is the choreography of the painter's pallet released in Tahquamenon Falls. The spirit driven soul to survive the wind and cold. Dance is the child's moment to gleam in the shadow of. Mr. Bojangles. Dance is the commune of spirit.
Dance is generational the story told without words, but through actions that reflect the culture, the influence, the life of those who've stretched a hand to share the story of ancestry. Dance is the transcendental womb song. The tear that flows from the pores and eyes of the one, who slays his fellow man in the congruent moment of destiny, that grants one life and the other death.
Dance, the cobbler's shoe, lost in the field of a new generation. Those who fail to see, the art upon the foot, restored by the artisan, who understands the dance of movement. The shoeshine man told the tale of hard times, but kept a smile on his face despite the task at hand. Let not the stories be forgotten of a bygone era. The street sweepers moving in unison to retain jobs in desperate times.
Dance is the purest reflection of self.
No comments:
Post a Comment