silence (the big top burning)

smothers the globe
a haze
a malaise
from the days
beneath a blanket
of nothing
that itches like fiberglass
the bare body of need.

against dry skin
to expose
the meat of the matter
the atrophied muscles
from blackened
unoxygenated sludge
where blood
used to flow

the star attraction
for a circus of one
careful face painting
stringing the tightrope
boarding the unicycle
for one last
wobbly attempt
as the big top
to the ground.

the silence
packed like cotton
into the inner ear
waxy deposits
in the tunnel of love
as dry skin flakes
like faux snow
in a glass bauble
showing exactly when
winter burst forth.

the emaciated shape
of big cat corpses
piled into the clown car
as the strips
of burning fabric
drape the emptiness
in one last lash
of fiery digress
flickering light
in the silent night.

this palpable hush
hanging heavily
in the plumes of smoke
as the remnants
in clouds of spectral ash
specks of gray
to dot
the battered green backdrop
of nevermore.

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