Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

The circus music plays, deep organ
sounds as the ramps lower
into the crowds.  A roar goes
up towards the heavens,
A path to the savior is found.
the clowns role out, dressed
in makeup and robes, ready
to act out a skit seen day
after day after day all
over the world.  Alms, they
cry, alms to repair the roof,
re-carpet the hall and pay
off the newly bought
Cadillac.  The music dies down,
the hat is passed around,
and you are frowned upon
if you don’t give enough.
When the crowd filters out
and clothes are changed, out
of your Sunday Best, no amount
of money can change
who you really are once
the circus leaves town.

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