The view from the trapeze

After another absence (has anyone noticed?) here I am again with signs of my continued existence. As faint as the heartbeat may be.

I stumbled across something I must have written before and possibly even released to the public here. I can’t remember. Life is always a work in progress, and likewise my occasional words (though, in that regard, little real progress is ever made), and so I tinkered with this a bit here and there. And splashed some black paint around it.

***********

God. i implore

stop keeping score

Your clown

can’t cope

anymore

at the circus

call me down

from the tightrope

Your fragile string

on which i dance

and sing

coloured spotlights

in the eyes

of Your dullard

the noise of the crowd

so loud

no chance

at all

to hear my cries

just let me fall

to the floor

to capsize

to think

no more

to drown

and no longer be

what You made

i’ve begged

i’ve prayed

to sink

release me

from Your trapeze

let peace be

an end to Your tease

let me fight

no more

let the light

fade

let me trade

my life

for nothingness

endless grey

descending

ending

no rebirth

no pretending

goodbye. so to say

and come what may

with life on earth.

*************

33 thoughts on “The view from the trapeze

    1. I thank you for such sweet concern, my friend. I am just fine, though possibly not the most positive soul on the planet. Oddly enough, your own little drawing came to mind when I was trying to come up with a suitable illustration.

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      1. I just like the idea of accepting life as being something essentially beyond your own control, but enjoying the ride, nonetheless. That may not be the message you have tried to convey, of course.

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      1. Hmmm. Possibly. But if we are to introduce such language into it why not do so properly?
        How about
        ‘I only dream what life might bring
        But can’t do fucking anything’
        or, to really cause offence (which is always fun)
        ‘I dream each night of carnal sin
        But thus restrained can’t fuck a thing’

        or perhaps we’re not puppets after all – maybe a Jack-in-the-box, just waiting for the moment when somebody opens the lid ….
        ‘Our hearts are like our coiled spring
        We leap at love of everything’

        Liked by 1 person

      2. I certainly didn’t mention ‘going down’ … you have to take responsibility for that.

        ‘This puppet’s hands are firmly tied
        He can’t be rude (although he tried)
        His mind is blank, his heart is dead
        You can’t put words into his head’

        Liked by 1 person

      3. Ah! Of course! Thought. Thought is a bit beyond me these days, I’m afraid. I don’t know a lot about trains, either. I wonder what happens when a train of thought collides with a ship of fools …..

        Liked by 2 people

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