i'm your tightrope, baby.

i'm the circus. i'm in the rings. calling to you. to the beasts that have been locked up too long to the relunctant laughter of those too disjointed to notice the clowns in their suits in their make-up in their cars in their never-ending-and-still-all-too-seperate little world. the ringmaster smiles, grimy faced toddlers giggle, people look and see and believe that there really is a three-ringed extravaganza of bicycling bears and dancing elephants and prancing horses and small men and women flipping and flying and falling through the air. all below the tightrope. the tightrope. held immortal through the acts, through the cotton candy and the sawdust and the trash forgotten by the clean up crew. the tightrope remains.