Poetry

Bard Dance

We paste on our faces and squelch down our thoughts,

produce positive, can-do attitudes to adhere to the court.

Seething inside, maybe; overwhelmed, swamped under,

forever unable to give in to our thunder.

The days melt under the heat and converge into one,

a conjunction of swarming bees whose tasks are never done.

Bodies we are close too, silent they must be,

still encourage us with a gesture only we can see.

And after the hour-chains finally let us retire,

we crash under waves that we have perspired.

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