A Song upon The Flame by Adam Parry

The crippled Whirling Dervish
dances the dream of mourning in his head
spinning, the uncontrollable whizzbee,
chanting the incantations at the back of tongueless mouth.
Laughing with glee as God dances with him.

He watches the vultures take his soulmate away,
with crusty, blinded eyes;
yet they do not take her smile from his mind
or the chiming laughter of her eyes.
Or even, as if she were twirling him about on a potter's wheel,
the caress of her body and hands.

The vultures chew and peck her flesh to feed their kin,
and as he steps out of the weary circle of dance
and into the undying fire of his soul
he spins and never falls-
as uncontrollable as the lightening storm-
he washes in the flame of her touch.
She gluts the greedy birds.

When all the other dancers go
he dances on
moulded and reshaped
by her tender hands.
As the night dances about him until morning,
the others find him there.
whitewashed with death,
and they feed him to the crows.