Circus Monkeys

Circus Monkeys




Three-ring circus
where clowns stumble over
train wrecks, where
acrobats bend over backward
to facilitate flying monkeys,
and the ring mistress
flails a corroded whip:
wake up and remember--
none of this is you.

You fly a higher path
up where the air is free
of stench, where blame
games are drowned out
by the calliope, where
not even the carnies are rigged,
and the gold ring
is yours for the taking.
You are the star.

You are a choice: no mere
option. Not one of many
rhinestone prizes left in the bottom
of the bucket. Not an afterthought,
but the primary jubilee. Not one of a
horde of simian wannabes nor
narcissistic necromancers. Worth
is not measured in misplaced blame.
Losers are fond of projection.

Fly higher, my friend, knowing
you did nothing wrong, that you
are beyond the reach of one
who is choosing to sink to the lowest
denomination. No fixing: he is
dancing on quicksand; beyond rescue.
You, however, have wings to fly and a
a heart that deserves only truth:
for you are a Queen.