Tarantella

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Tarantella

The begining of what to entwine

Victorian (mind) elegance so divine

and so begins the deadly dance.

And what's brought to his lips,

seemingly a cup of souls, he sips,

of such air, is he, that of romance.

Feet stepping, so enraged,

hearts like birds encaged

and what begins so stark and meek

wants to take breaths away,

make them sway,

and out their bodies, our bodies, the essence leaks.

Breathing rough, but with flare,

noticing his stare,

and dare to talk while keeping pace,

speaking softly, he hears,

luckily, and sneers

for a second, in this dancing race.

"How is it that it can be?

Such a vamporious man next to me?"

"How can it be," said he, "That you have no lust?

Of any man's game you may play,

do you stay?

Not! Hold you any man's trust?"

No answer for a bit,

"If I was the one who lit,

the one's candle I see,

could it be fair in your ear,

to even hear?

Then in this dance, let me be."

"Oh such fire!"

"Such a liar!"

The tarantella far from end.

Staring into the eyes,

glaring in contest of demise, (undone)

already wanting a mend.

"How say you," says he,

"that you let me be,

if not- if you wish- at all?"

"Perhaps then if I may,

keep my head where I can stay."

"Of course, but do not fall."

"Away from me you shall not go!"

"Of course not," said he, "I only talk low."

Of the various stitched seams,

begining of new courses,

and in the midst, my mind forces,

to understand what he means.

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