Dance Macabre

Living is like dancing.
I don’t do it very well.
Every day I force one foot
in front of the other.

But there’s no verve in my step,
no beauty in the motion.
Just a dull thud
as one leg plods ahead of the next.

No grace in my follow-through.
No feel for the rhythm of life.
Just a well rehearsed drudgery

day in and day out
as I slog through the muck of being.

Dry Spell

The thunder utters discontent
and I am envious.
I stifle my unhappiness
and swallow it like nails.

I want to growl
and shed a thousand tears
like driving rain.
Pelt the earth with hailstorms,
throw a lightning bolt or two.

Instead, my sorrow festers
until I crumble,
a dry heap on the ground.