Whispering acrobats falling from high-strung tight ropes,
and I am the saftey net below,
Tattered and torn
many holes worn, but they don't see that
the crowd is stunned, stones silent in their gravel seats
am I just as at fault,
as the spilt tightrope above
the stumbling feet
the collapsing corpses hurling down so neat
blood splattering the porcelin hearts
of Love scorn tumblers
Figures of white carried out like royalty
and only their stains are left
amended by death
-the cruel mistress
bares witness
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