
The tents billow
in ruined spectacles;
soiled silk sewn
to splintered spikes.
Broken pegs.
Threadbare walls
that drip frayed string,
coming apart at the edges.
The tethered tents
drift in static motion;
kimono butterflies
dwell within.
The tightropes snap
under bending bodies
that dance as they fall,
and land on dusty carpets,
stained by shattered marrow.
Oriental rugs
thrown over crushed grass,
brittle gray tones.
The winds weep,
haunted voices.
The spectators clap
at the final spectacles;
collapsed safety nets
that bleed dusts.
As the tents fall;
giant curtains
over shattered stages.
They grasp at life
with broken fingers.




just wow this is amazing as always your ords so beautifully written (de j vu but i swear i read this...maybe i dream poems
)

12 old applause
