The Circus

 

I sleep in a tent of my memories,

a canopy spreading with recollection’s images,

on it appear the creatures from my past that come alive

during the rambling journey

from my pillow to all the passages

rolling around in my head.

 

They are a circus of thoughts,

each having an act to perform,

twirling and spinning,

leaping in their fantasy gestures

to bring to life the moments I had lived

as a vivid sugary satire

so I can forget those times of tears.

 

My nightly views of their antics

has so many varied features

for I can’t control when they turn bizarre,

acting out some darker, macabre expression,

which gives my admission into that slumberland theater

some twists to the mind and snarls for the heart,

waking with confusion and heaviness

over a visit that turned so strange.

 

Still tomorrow I’ll wait for the event to return

because sometimes I get to play a part

when the ringmaster has my face

and all the players follow my party pointers.

 

It is an escapade that makes each evening

the opportunity to transform what was into an entertainment,

happily undoing for a while

what used to be recalled with only sadness.