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 his tongueless mouth.
Laughing with glee as God dances with him.

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

The vultures peck and chew her flesh to feed their kin,
and as he steps out of the weary circle of dance
and into the undying fire of her soul,
he spins and never falls -
as uncontrollable as the lightning 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 on about him until morning,
the others find him there
white washed with death,
and the feed him to the crows.