I’m a Trapeze Artist

There’s always the pain underneath,
exuding from my eyes in stares,
the desert that once held my tears.

Beyond, a tiger lies in the deceptively serene Savanah
waiting to relieve me from all of this.

A five is my steady companion flaring to a ten where the really yellow sad face with
tears tops the scale.

Each day I wait to see if I wake,
a small robin sometimes sings songs of hope at my morning’s pane.
Hope that things can come and go,
that earth is underneath my soul.
Hope, birthed by faith,
dares to believe there is a way.
A prayer, many prayers, flutter as a deck of cards, within my head.

Now a small circus tent appears,
larger inside than without.
I’m a trapeze artist swinging
from one small platform to another, walking the high wire, just to entertain the doctors
who clap and cheer
as I go through their convolutions.
How will this end?

Might I be cured of this affliction and
go back in time where I was well?
Hope is a little bird at my windowsill.