The Circus

Crimson and milk canopies frame her mind.

Truth and belief stand as giants—doubt stretched between.

Self clutches a staff of hope

And walks,

Ignores the faceless shouts from below—fear, misery, regret—

And walks,

Remembers she cannot look down nor can she stop,

And walks.

The line stretches past sight.

Despair whirls ’round, threatening to cast Self into the darkness.

She steadies herself

And walks.