They dance because it's a better taste
than the purple nightshade creeping
up the walls, searching
for a way to quell the music.
Powerless, they dance because
they are trained like
circus monkeys from the day the sun
lights up their pale green eyes and the
song calls to them like a sister
of the sirens.
They dance though the beat has gone on and on
and on for
too long. They dance though tears
bleed their way up out of their throats,
butterflies that slice through the
like paper scissors.
They dance across
bones crushed into the floors in a
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