Knife Thrower

The tent, has a scent of mildewed fear and palpitates with shouting cries exciting our senses with familiar rise Our nerves stretched taut, with thrills, inside The marksman tosses wild and free A showman's skill that stirs the dust I signal him, he aims at me... Then I must brace, and I must trust! It is approaching time for the last shot I must hold my breath, and stop my heart Then in rapid fire, he'll throw the lot I now give the final cue to start He hurls the daggers around my head My death defied by dangerous chance! He drinks applause so keenly fed My own reward .... a meager glance.... ________________________________________________________________________ For David's Contest: Circus