MarquisDeSade

Amidst the spokes of old, wooden wheels,
Tens and thousands of words weave in-and-out like ribbons.
Small birds and beetles of half-remembered fairytales
hover in a a little pouch of frozen time over wheel-broken dust.
Dreams and softness.
A child lightly places its fingers into the movement,
baby fingers of dreams and softness,
and the wheel slices its hand off with a perfect, clean pirouette.
Just blood.
Just. Blood.
And a ballerina.
Dancing...dancing...dancing...