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
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