The Circus

It all starts with a trapezist

Pointed toes pull my legs, straining my back.

Two inches, one inch, half an inch, closer, closer, closer.

Where my nose breathes warmth into my legs,

hovering just above my knees.

Hovering,

Not falling.

Falling is what happens to someone whose hands are a little too sweaty.

Clammy palms come to the nervous.

The nervousness sinks into those who glance out at the crowd

And down at the ground.

Glancing causes vertigo.

Vertigo causes a loss of balance.

That's where falling takes place.

Not hovering,

Falling.

Hovering is my left foot as it nearly grazes the soft dirt.

Grazes,

Not hitting.

Hitting is the back of the left hand that connects with a face that gives "too much lip."

Cheekiness is when someone shows their ass.

An ass is presumed property.

And heaven knows that what's mine is his and what's his is theirs.

Sharing is what we learn in preschool,

And preschool is where they teach the boys to pinch the little girls with pretty eyes and wide smiles.

That's where all of the hitting begins.

Not grazing,

Hitting.

Grazing is for the animals, eating their once a day meal.

Eating,

Not devouring.

Because the dictionary claims "devouring" to have a negative connotation,

Even synonymous to "greed".

Devouring is total consumption inside ravenous hearts.

Ravenous actions are the diggers of pits of starvation.

When I see someone dig a hole, I stand on a filled hill in the heat, where a precious wooden box is buried.

All humans are, is food for the ground,

The earth itself is all but eating bodies.

Not eating,

Devouring.

Eating is for the gluttonous kings, who wear the purple robes and golden crowns.

Kings,

Not commoners.

Commoners are the people who stand in the background,

Of the heroes epics.

No one has ever heard of a person born normal,

Slaying a dragon or pulling a sword from the stone.

Dragons wouldn't waste their eternal time on someone who will never be remembered.

The cousin of the snake wants his name etched into history, like lovers initials in trees.

No one will remember the one who has not a single fable or fairy tale written about their deeds.

Not kings,

Commoners.

Commoners are the blessed ones.

Blessed,

Not wanted.

Wanted is what's asked for.

It's the planned child,

The promotion that takes even more time away from family,

Fights that shift from lack of money,

To lack of time.

The sleeping in different rooms, and eventually in different houses.

It's all from what was longed for.

Not blessed,

Wanted.

Wants are what fill bleachers that loom so far below.

Feet from the soft dirt, where it all lies together.

Hovering becomes falling,

Because once one realizes that they're hovering,

It's too late,

And they've already splayed their angel wings.

Grazing becomes hitting,

Because little boys grow into big men,

With angry hearts and strong arms,

And it all becomes apart of love.

Eating becomes devouring,

Because the earth can never quench

It's thirst for blood and it's craving for corpses

And it all becomes scarfing.

Kings become commoners,

Because even the strong Julius was brought down

To nothing more than the commoners status of dead,

And no one even bothers Brutus with the revolution.

Blessings become wants,

People tell God to slow down,

For their silos are too full.

And that's when the next famine takes a steel grip.