they do the danse macabre,
who only sit and breathe
some writhe and kick
and beat their fists raw
others glide and sway
with fragile-fleshed grace
still others tremble at the thought
of the hollow bones in their grip
but they do the danse macabre
who only sit and breathe
each vein shunts a silent river
each cell contains a universe
that quickens towards stillness
no matter how softly we step
morbidity grows in our hot hearts
and nestles in our throats
and we do the danse macabre
though we only sit and breathe.
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