I'll be happy–so happy–when again I am able, to dance and be free in the bounds of this body.
As of now, I am ailed, a constriction of sores. Keeping me from expressing to the fullest: my whimsy.
I yearn for a good stretch, to swing sword, and to shower. To take to the streets upon board, and empowered.
Don't get me wrong, forced downtime can be a treat. Like how my great pile of books have begun to be read. Meditation up-taken. Into imagination bled.
Lying serene in a tide of tunes. Sometimes within me, song sparks desire. Lifting my halo, my heart taken to flutter. Craving the dance and free flowing creation. Tempting manifestation. Floating now, to dawdle in playful obsession.
I'm torn, for within me a soul seeks expression! But I'm bound, wrapped in sensitive wounds. That compel me to rest. Imagine, at best.
Left to ponder, to read and to dream. Revel in art and wonders, that drive me on and inspire, again within me, the flame.
A burning passion I cannot at present satisfy.
Embers that hunger for the warmth of cascading showers, relieving cold bones and chilled tentative fingers.
When again I can revel in their delicious calm. I'll surely cry out in saturated mirth.
But for now I'll give no longer to complaint. For after all I am grateful, this path tread, remains splendid.
Although I've relinquished that which I'd love to appease, it's given me perspective and opportunity to grow.
To take hold of what’s been pushed away for so long. When again I indulge practices adored, with new pleasure from appetite, I'll grip tight with fervour!
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