I would love to write.
Underscored, italiscised, in bold trebuchet
But my "writing" is too blackly sprawling for this page
Like dancers unequal to the majesty of music:
Tchaikovsky and Prokofiev and Stravinsky's soul-opening inspired calculations of rhythm and note - So few fail to disappoint those god-like man-wrought explosions of not-quite song.
My "writing" is not yet even the pithy, technical, dead dancer of muscle, line, rhythm, space, elan and choreographic competency.
It remains a grown-old child:
Half staring awe-fully at the magical movement of the sky
While frowning down upon its silly self - blinded by sun.