he didn’t see
as a daredevil
though he rode
a rocket propelled
through the air
over canyons
in his
red white and blue
the stars on his
shoulder pads
as well as in
his eyes

addicted to
the cheers
the fame
the pain pills
that allowed him
to lace up
his special boots
the left
an inch and half shorter
than the right
to compensate
for the many
fractures that howl
on cold
winter nights

he dreamt of
being an
escape artist
but couldn’t
his own
self image
to fit the chains
so he raced
to spit
in the face of death
rather than
the opposite way

he would base
his intention
on self reflection
as the land
blurred by
in his rejection
of best intention
using deflection
rather than
the iron tension
at the mention
that maybe
he was simply
wishing to die

he was a liar
this death defier
a bundle
of dry kindling
for a spark
unable to calculate
the velocity
in the emptiness
of his own
damned mind
not a daredevil
but a simple man
daring his demons
into the light

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