she’s a trapeze artist
came to my tent
last night smelled of
cigarettes and tasted
like cold-cream
I can barely walk
since the illness
the stabbing pain
just below my heart
continues she tells
me the fortune teller
foresees a gloriously
bright future as soon
as the longest night
ends which is impossible
to predict then she says
I will heal return
as the human
cannon ball set a
new standard in
arial maneuvers
but she’s biased
at home in the air
flying whirling
trapeze artist living
without the need
of an itinerant
circus safety net
-
Author:
Vipassana (
Offline) - Published: January 27th, 2026 02:42
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
Offline)
Comments1
This poem seems surreal in its form and style. It is most interesting in some of the terms (human cannon ball) and it speaks more to the mind. Well worded
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.