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Circus


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Does anyone see the throng

I see in the sky,

or is it just me?

No one wants to know

the next arrival

nor the next removal,

nor the ticket collector --

sullen angels, their faces

stamped into approaching dusk,

the masses, the jury

approaching in a chariot

of rain

and their tears begin.

Or is it just me?

No one seems to notice

angels turning to clowns,

mottled, toothless

eaters of the light,

always winning,

always up for the next dazzle

with a smile,

blinking a year away

as if never begun

always up for

another disappearing

flick

of that circus

sleight of hand.

Everyone pulls out an umbrella,

hair and suits are safe. But

air lands on me everywhere,

a moist shroud

I try to brush off,

scrub off,

but it will not go --

a soft vapor of clown breath

sticking,

stuck,

or is it just me,

chosen this time?

A breath too close,

I hear too closely.

In my ears,

I hear my turn,

rumbling of another thunderous

applause,

and in the middle of

the tears and jeers

I stand,

the star.

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But this is what makes you special, ToV -- how in-tune with the world you are, how you give even the littlest thing meaning by your taking notice of them -- even though others may be too absorbed by the mundane to notice the beautiful minutiae that our world has to offer. Never change, girlie!

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