My brain whirls
with twirling,
circus sounds.
Clowns plodding around,
falling face first
into shaving foam plates.
This empty tent is my lair.
A tent of regret and bad ideas,
I fear the sounds in the air.
I'm a ringmaster
plucked from a photograph,
left in an old dusty place,
a retirement home
for my memory.
Surrounded by doppelganger faces
leering back, wearing my own despair.
This empty tent where
I fear the
sounds in the air.
The chill
of haunted laughter
straddles
the organ music,
and cycles higher
and higher,
like a motor biker
riding
the walls of death.
Laughter at my
smile bereft face.
Not with me,
but against,
and setting the pace.
In this dense atmosphere.
Thick,
with those fearful sounds in the air
Juggling thoughts,
walking tightropes
between trapeze artists
ready to knock me off my feet.
I sway and stagger through
this tent,
humming a circus march.
Brain just seeking a seat,
a place to rest and breathe.
away from the intense pressure to be...
Someone whose skin
doesn't sit correctly on these bones
that are wearing thin.
The sounds repeat,
fearful enough to keep me
nailed to my seat
Me, the clown,
when I was trying
to act like a prince,
and this tent no palace,
nor place to be.
Not home for me,
I am only at home
where the moonlight winks.
Thanks for reading
Please take a few moments
to check out my new book "Poetic Outlaw"
available from Amazon
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CVQ5F9K8/
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