The aerialist, arms reaching out again
for the trapeze, leaps ever wider gaps.
Discipline must carry him across,
the trust in his own training, in his own hands,
knowing everyone falls. To challenge chaos,
to fly when God denied man wings, ignore
the roaring crowd, and be is all that matters.
For a moment, destiny is held.
Only a moment — then the illusion ends,
the hubris of control. Release it,
aerialist, and bow; the act is finished.
Let it slip into the net below.
Stephen Brooke ©2016
As this first came to me, and was partly written in my head, I was comparing a poet to an aerialist. But that was unnecessary to what the poem had to say.