3-Ring Madness
by Odin Roark

His father explained it all.

One’s leader of choice
may say we shouldn't,
but many do.

Countless watch with glee,
some wrinkle their brow,
hordes clap their hands,
few cover their eyes,
ears and conscience
as fear’s Big Top
clamors for attention.

How insidious the toll,
the admission ticket to illusion’s high-flying thrills,
the vacuous thin air of spot lit motion,
void of compassion’s safety net,
as tumbling hearts risk a free fall reward,
the grip and veneration that may not appear.

Yet…

We gaze up wide-eyed
from entitlement’s reserved seats,
cheering three rings of crippled principle.

Our compliant minds
of languid vision,
blurred principals,
quashed intelligence,
and broken spirits
attend to the circuitous
swaying of heads and trunks,
morphing like melting metronomes
winding life’s rhythm down slowly,
reminding us time eventually ceases to matter,
as hearts refuse to pump,
and tears become invisibly dry,
never reaching defeated eyes.

Our ringmaster eventually asks us,
“When the threat of death
becomes the only feeling left,
will you pay attention, understand,
and hail the spectacle,
or will you enjoin the global arena’s ghostly performers
in this complicit show of insanity,
for a truly grand closing night finale?”

Thus

As the bows from center ring
garnered the expected applause,
the father gripped the shoulders of his child,
knowing he’d explained what the boy had years to try and understand…

hopefully.