October 10: Drunkard's Walk

The skirling pipes
enfold me in song,
leading me in a caper,
a hornpipe without direction.
First one way,
then doubling back,
heeding the notes
as they swirl in
my feverish mind,
guiding my steps
in some mad dance
composed by
the Devil himself.
Faster, slower, from
side to side, slide-step,
a marionette with insanity
holding the reins.
Throwing myself blindly
into the cacophonous storm
that buffets me,
trusting that the song
will bear me safely,
collapsing, spent, boneless,
with the last, piercing note.