The Ballerina

The Ballerina, 1995

Up in heaven, when it rained,
the angels cried, and then they sang!
In the corridors of night, hell fire, and,
the haze,
one after another flutter helpless in the maze.

Foul circles with the turning sun, depart!
Flesh torn from a barren field, the start!
Settling on a shifting Earth,
for some madman’s sad rebirth.

For some sweet child’s new arrival,
for some wise man—a disciple,
for some beggar—pennies saved,
for some philosopher—the maze!

Twirling like a ballerina, on a metal rod so cold,
slipping with the shifting quicksand,
as the clocks turn into mold!
On an axis, flowing—even,
listen to the angels singing!

Metal wrought in fires hot,
until some savior he begot!
Melting with the hands of gold,
would’st thou in heav’n stop the cold?

Would’st thou in heav’n stop the storm?
Would’st thou in heav’n take the form?
Would’st thou in heav’n stop the clocks?
End those wretched ticks and tocks!

Spinning, still consuming, erasing all the numbered hands—
steady running, steady sinking, drowning in the sinking sand!
But in our world it all turns grey:
twilight, in morning, and today.

Like pebbles rolling down a hill,
back up a man will carry, still—
like a lighthouse in the rain,
with destiny the ball and chain!

Like the simple songs of life,
in A minor, C, or D,
we twirl on a little stand, to some sad melody.
Yet there she stays, and dare she spin—
this way, that way, back again!

Until the day her music stops,
when silence locks the music box,
on me and he and her and you,
the sun itself will slumber too.

To rise above some distant peak,
over oceans calm, and deep,
we’ll roll in a sky of glass,
like ants crawling through the grass.
Oh, so much for us unknown,
if only light upon it shone.
If though only we could see,
and hear buzzing like a bee.

So sing with the angels—up above,
and down below;
our dreams are fleeting, as a doves,
looking upon the show.
Tracing through the grass, with mud stains upon our hands,
until to God we yell, until to God demand!

From your indifference, come out now!
Save our world or show us how!
Sit not upon your throne of gold,
alone as even clocks grow old!

Descend upon us, with thy hands!
Save us from these sinking sands!
Save us from these stormy seas!
Alas, you have me on my knees!

In your soft approach, illumination,
golden hue,
down upon us, look you not, for you’re dissolving too!
Struggling through eternity, as
all the numbers fall,
ticking, tocking, wildly flying;
vertigo upon the wall!

Back and forth with us all day,
tonight, tomorrow, and today;
with little thought of men and sin,
tomorrow she will spin again.


Published by

Brandon K. Nobles

Brandon is an author, poet and head writer for Sir Swag on YouTube. With 630k subscribers. Since February 2021 he has written for the most important and popular series, News Without the Bulls%!t and the least popular work on the channel, History Abridged. Brandon joined the channel in late January, since then his work has been featured every month in News and History. His novels and works of fiction have also been well received, and he continues to be a proficient and professional chess player. In his spare time he like to catch up on work.

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