Thursday, June 02, 2016

Showmanship, a poem


Once, I lived for the word, walked
its tightropes above the crowd. Their roar
subsided into distant murmurs.

Balance comes too easily,
no more than a trick, all danger
dwindled, turned to showmanship,

meaning nothing. The show is over,
folks. The poet has left the building.

Stephen Brooke ©2016

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