they twirl like drunks who found a reason
to stand up straight for once.
music thumps through the floorboards
into their bones – the only god
that ever paid rent.
you watch from the corner,
not in silks but in a worn-out dress,
smiling that smile that says
yeah, I’ve seen the mess and the magic both.
spirits tangle in the smoke
above the stage where time
forgets to tick and dreams
crash into reality like a bar stool.
hips sway out the stories –
laughter that tastes like beer,
passion that leaves bruises,
joy that’s just sadness with a beat.
you light the spark in their chests
not with divine grace, but with the raw
truth that dancing is the only way
to spit in the face of the empty days.
we move, weaving the old lies
and the new truths together,
and you’re right there with us –
Terpsichore, you beautiful, broken muse,
the only one who ever understood
that the best dances are the ones
we almost didn’t have the courage to start.
Bio of the Poet: W J. Manares is a one-of-a-kind writer from Aklan, Philippines, authored more than 69 books and counting, a lesser-known worldbuilder and storyteller, and labelled as “the sardonic yet whimsical author of the Philippines” since 1999.
