born of a panther
this rhythm cry will never end:
its volume is an eternal dance.
life-steps
that fall in time as
the soil inhales and exhales.
life-movements
that flow from the soil.
not to be mistaken for loose dirt
that swirls across vacant lots
during a changing wind’s last sigh. emulating
something natural, disastrous. exposing
tracks that lead to and from where panthers
give birth.
this rhythm cry cannot end, because
there is no end to be seen.
breathing life into a slowly dying
struggle. blasphemous to some, the
breathing is the religion, heresy is
the dance.
a manifesto is each motion.
see me. feel me. touch me. i am here.
this is my space. thumping, bumping
space. as narrow as a needle with no eye.
celebrating a moon that sits
in the sky of a hot july afternoon.
jumping up and down, pumping
fists into the air.
not moving.
The Muse Minefield 