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The Circus
A heavy weight rests upon
a weary soul lost in thought
holding anguish deep within
a scattered mind cutting ties
in empty tents left behind.
Leaning slightly, standing still
among a heap of peanut shells,
bent soda cans, broken glass,
fake magic tricks, paper bags,
trampled top hats, cigarettes,
seven left boots and counting,
the rabbit's hair in the hat.
Marquee standards down the tracks,
this poor charade crossing lines
three states over skipping towns
with disregard to messes made,
making others clean the Lot.
Not looking back until packed,
with driving wheels spinning fast,
clowns and tamers, animals
caged and starving for the crowd.
Not looking back in disgust
rather looking to admire.
