Dance.
Forget about
how lonely,
how desperate,
how hopeless
you feel.

Dance.
Yield to the space
before you.
Notice room so vast
you mention one word,
it echoes back.

Dance
instead of crying,
before you rot,
before that epiphany
of "nothing matters"
authorizes your demise.

Dance
with things that seem dead
but aren't,
like the dusty books
on your shelf,
forgotten autumn leaves
under the frost, and
the spirit of nature.

Dance.
Compose raging melodies
in your mind
for that audience of
seemingly dead things.
Scrape up any last spoonful
of passion you have
so that to imitate
those movements of unloneliness.
Shamelessly give life to all
that seems dead and alone.

Dance.