Holding on to this trapeze doesn’t get any easier As the years swing past Casting parabolas in the empty air.
All that’s left now is the failing to hold on and the Nagging doubt over whether there’s a safety net worth its name.
We mock gravity with such regularity. But know too that flying is for the birds.
Up here there are no blank canvasses to play with anymore and From up here the sparse audience may as well be faces Painted on. Those memories of flesh turned upwards All aglow with starlit wonder, are now as doubtful as that safety net. It’s the anticipation of the inevitable fall that is always the first fatal blow.
Now the downward swing seems more real than the upward climb past the point of no return.