An Hour and Thirty

My legs are bruised;
the blood spreads outward like the sparks of fireworks.
My feet are adorned with callouses.

I am a dancer of a different kind.

Recycled breath doesn't encircle my
face, clothes and hair.

It is the wind, one that freezes my
nose, ears and hands.

I torture myself
willingly
until breathless.

I fall, gasp and bleed.
I stand,
I exhale,
I bandage.

I'm determined,
my sweat staining my face and clothes.

Then something flies my way,
something that hurls dirt, grass and rain.

I capture it and I start to dance.

[ SJM ]