Converge

Convergence 1952, Jackson Pollock

The lines are thrown about with rhythm

A dance

A beat

A song

As if a night club was given a faceless image

I hear the strum of the bass

The beat of the drums

I see the sway of hips and the taps of feet

The room is wild

The room is hot

You can feel the touch of everyone as they jig and get down

You can smell the air as it fills with sweat

Like pathways that twist and turn

The music never seems to end

I don't know where we go after death

But bring me here after my last breath