An undulating mass of unending charade,
The rhythm tingles each nerve, frozen yet un-dead.
I request thou to not rain on my parade.
What is a lie but a truth half said, or not at all,
What is a secret if not this life of perverse indulgence.
An undulating mass of unending charade.
Each strum a soothing upheaval, a musical salve;
an acknowledgement, or a call for help from the depths.
The rhythm tingles each nerve, frozen yet un-dead.
Blinded by the light, comforted by the hand,
as the dark gives way to a rapidly contracting pupil,
I request thou to not rain on my parade.
The prompt for this one is "take the title of a song and make that the title of your poem".
The prompt doesn't really require you to pay homage to the song. And I haven't. The song is symbolic of Barbra throwing caution to the winds and running after her dreams, and love. Hidden in these words are my attempts to do the same.
The form is a cascade poem.
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