Dance of Missteps

The maelstrom envelopes my soul
caught in the whirling dervish
of Harut and Marut,
and I spin and spin around
until center is found.
It is the rogue wave
that has me
tumbling haphazardly
until I reach up and grab the sun
until I reach up and grab the truth.
There is a way to the center
until the center becomes strong
enough to resist the forces of storm,
but it is gale force winds,
and a storm warning — 
the cyclone of opposing forces
the falling down and getting back up again.
You are dark and then light and then dark again
and I am light and then dark and then light again
until it becomes a dance of missteps 
and we are tangled up in webs
of illusion and confusion — 
but the vortex always contains
truth at its center.

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