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  • Writer's pictureKayley Taylor

Tiptoes

How do you dance without shoes? Oh but my darling, you were born with a soul. The shoe is only material. All living things dance. Rainbows catch rain in upside down umbrellas outside muddy puddles as pots of gold weave their yarns of treasure untold. Newspaper kites carry memories of drip drop glue and buttered toast ribbons across canvases of bubble blue sky sunshine. Existence is a rhythm without the essence of any known rhyme, save one single heartbeat. Life. The messy parts transform into confetti blossoms ever so sweetly surrendered to dreams of milk and honey tea time. Lavender wisps drink in the scent of an atmosphere steeped with crumpet bouquets. And that is where, you dance. Ballroom floors and antique dresses of beautiful disasters sweeping between thunderstorms mirroring carousel paper airplanes. Stick the landing. Take a bow. And raise your glass to champagne bullets that ricochet through eternal hourglasses. Diffuse the chaos without losing yourself, raw and vulnerable as you are there is no better time than now to dance without your shoes. Soul to soul.


On tiptoes.


Learn to drift within the depths of every polar plunge kaleidoscope midnight reverie. Escape the confines of feather pillows and lampshade lullabies for wandering wearily contrary to hickory dickory tied to the dock of maccabees and trite. War is a vessel upon which anguish boils as a barren desert scorched beneath the frostbitten sun. Tendrils and tethers loop knots around wild elementals as freedom bells ring. Peel back the layers that sting and corrode silver platters claimed by arrogance, prolifery and greed. Trinkets gleam in ghostly slivers of poisoned apple promises. Where in this unraveled tragedy shall we find a place to dance? Wind the music box to a quarter past three, the witching hour. Ballerina crescendos paint vivid teardrops upon stained glass windows of steeples and parapets. One to soar above, the other to fortify in stark relief. Even beauty stripped and left bare is timeless. Notes of ancient waterfalls as the pendulum swings to prairie windmills still sing a mournful tune. Sweet nightingales carry on by memory. It is this haunting, mesmerizing sound we step into. And dance without shoes. Soul to soul.


On tiptoes.

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