Three rings no more,
The sideshow’s closed,
The tents are dismantled
And left in the snow.
Who cares if they’re frozen?
No desire to thaw
Or ever uncover
What once was a draw.
“The show must go on,”
A saying, untrue.
Much like the belief
In a permanent glue.
Tacky, for a while,
It got the job done,
But only in the circus
That employed only one.
I am the ringmaster,
Or should say, I “was.”
A silent foreclosure,
Caused not even a buzz.
A swarm of mosquitos,
That invaded my show,
Invading my life,
And eating me whole.
My blood, then, please take it,
Oh, the welts surely itch,
But that’s inconsequential,
To a disrespectful bi–
Say what? Say who?
Please just say when,
The show will re-open
At some point again.
No, that’s a lie,
The biggest untruth,
I’m not being coy
Nor being uncouth.
After a decade plus some,
Of putting on shows,
I’ve finally decided,
There’s no place like home.
Home is where the heart is,
But my heart is lost,
I’ll live as a vagabond,
Traipsing through frost.
No snow, no ice, no bitter chill,
Can freeze me out more,
Than a judgmental will.
The attorney’s signed off,
On this last testament,
Which goes into effect,
Right now? (An estimate.)
I’ll live off estimates
And balancing acts,
Walking on egg shells,
Filled with brass tacks.
It took quite a while
To come to this conclusion,
No longer living,
In another’s delusion.
I make my own destiny,
If I start fresh, so be it.
No longer your lap dog,
Your help, I don’t need it.
Whatever needs doing,
Guaranteed I’ll get done,
Even if for a few months,
I’ll be singing along
To a song out of tune,
Out of sync with the rhythm,
Of how things should be,
A malfunctioning prism.
All the colors that should
Appear crystal clear,
Have disappeared into blackness,
A sign of who cares.
The list is short.
Are you on it?
Probably not.
That’s okay, I forgive you,
And the rest of the lot.
All of them sorry,
But none of them sorry,
Apologies are ghosts,
In my personal story.
The show, you see, was haunted
From years of old demons,
Who banded together,
Pretending for Eden.
The garden though bountiful,
Produced fruit so rotten,
That not even a beggar,
Would ask for that toxin.
Ultimately though,
No bridges were burned,
They were just frozen solid,
Then destroyed, as you learned.
Knowledge is power,
So is self-worth,
And finally striding,
Away from the hurt.
I’m sorry to those,
Who enjoyed my fine show,
I was quite an actor,
Always ready to go.
But masks are packed up,
Facades are no longer,
The show is now closed,
Even if alone,
I’ll wander.

abandoned circus.jpg

If you enjoyed this then you should check out these other great poems.

The Grand Show


The Return

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