The Fool with a Circus Mind

I have roots down in earth claimed dead

Where none have reached before

A womb of bright and frenzied beasts

A depth for temples sore

I’ve heard the pulse of war and wind

They sound nothing like my soul

A place of blooms and hues of hushed intent

She who adorns the world

I am in fact not what I was sculpted to be

By steady hands that ached and stirred

I’m here engrossed in fickle quest

Of why all creatures flee in herds

And released into a boundless glade

They whispered, “Go your way.”

Tough earth bore this wayfaring soul

Wildly unfettered but afraid

I am the obsessed under-rested definer

Why do they Slip? Stick? Slur?

Knee-deep in fear of mediocrity

And which scale shall weigh my worth

I just can’t seem to claim a mountain range

When I have yet to meet who governs her sun

Rivers still rush with sediment and pulp

Sailors still fold sick on gooey rum

That is all I’ve ever been

A patchwork of spare-button colors

Quilted and limp over callused banisters

For passerby’s to hold then hand over

But the view is wholesome from my knotted tree stump

that complacent beings below might never find

All with their familiar remarks of capture and cage walls

And I the fool with a circus mind.