Circus Type Poem by Troy Cochran

It is a kind of game we poets most excel at:
A pretense to a death-defying swing from starry altitudes
And hope to God we never fall out of our circus minds.

We call it poetry, and fine art, and gut truth,
As is our very souls were balanced on the line.
But no one ever dies, or disappears in midair ~ poof!

And that's the point: no poet's ever tried!

For all our transcendental talk, we compromise; we lie.
We are mere acrobats above a safety net;
Not even that: just gaspers at our own imagined stunts.

We don't even have to fall to get back up!
Our death-defying trapeze shows are merely monkey jumps;
Not even invisible wires are required to hold us true.

After all the hype is flung and typing done,
We're still just chimpanzees in moth-skin suits.