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Personal Note:
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Poem
Often in life, it's felt like on a tightrope I've been walking
between what is reality and what is merely an act.
The names of people in my story, I've chosen to redact,
those I've cheered on with a 'Bravo,' stood and applauded.
Protagonists who took on the role of a true-life Romeo, 
if performing in Shakespeare's Globe would've been lauded.

Sometimes, the tightrope was swaying but I held on
even when it seemed as if all chance of hope was gone.
Thoughts of loved ones prevented me from letting go.
Their names fading on the playbill, and from my tongue
when I struggled to remember them on gloomy days
like when memory took a holiday and caused me to forget
the lyrics to many of the favorite songs I'd so often sung.

But I'll not give up the stage and rage at the thief,
the scene stealer whose mask has become wrinkled.
Hair, a silver mane who causes thespians the grief
of trying to keep their balance on the high wire. 
A task which gets more difficult with each passing day.
Age is the bandit whose hands rob me of memory,
leaving me pleading, "Please, what is my next line?"
If I stumble while reciting words of a well-rehearsed play,
there'll be no ovation for a comedian who's no longer divine.
Perhaps it's time for the farewell lines I hesitate to say.

I tiptoed across the tightrope between moral and profane
trying to avoid the disaster of falling to the ground.
Usually, I've found life's realities to be more insane
than any fictional story I would label 'profound.'
Today, the stage has less appeal for me, acting far less zeal
as shadows deepen behind the curtain in each scene.
It seems my emotions engage more often, for now I feel
sorrow for those gone but who still appear in my dreams.
I've given them bouquets for playing notable parts,
sweet scented crimson roses to those who once loved me. 
Withered ones to those who knowingly wounded my heart.

I don't fear plunging from the height unless the rope has frayed.
Yes, I've teetered and trembled but on the tightrope I remained.
There, in the theatre of what's left of my life, I'll take a seat
and watch the show on center stage while others walk the wire.
When moonlight glows and winter blows blizzards of snow,
I'll recall those I've loved and lost; their memories I've saved,
although their flowers are now covered with frost upon graves.
I'll humbly walk in their footsteps but never in the limelight 
of stars gleaming in the eyes of tightrope walkers on opening night.
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