Is it worth walking the tightline of life
as a drunken trapeze artist— feeding on grass
from the greener side? We are gentle, grazing creatures,
trading paint against the rail fence, peering through
cracks at a better life, always just out of reach.
I meet the ceiling of my limits, hanging from the rafters
of myself. I face the wall as if it could talk back, as if
my skeletons could speak through the plaster of the
closet that hides them.
Beneath the roar in my chest, a lion would still cry—
but never in front of their pride, perhaps because
of pride. A new man, mane brushed clean, yet what
is new when the old still haunts, when it’s harder
to forget regret than to accept what must be accepted?
So I obliterate the past, declare death to the old self—
all the undone things, all the debts unpaid.
On the cards I’ve been dealt, I keep a poker face
for enemies. But I never play a hand just to impress;
I clean up my own mess, one move at a time.
Watch every step you take. This is life’s tightrope.
