David Crandall Poet Rhyme

Silent Circus

Segmented arms and legs are seen
wielding a broken machine.
A swinging lamp of kerosene
lights up a silent movie screen.
In the dark Circus Oblique,
presided o'er by the freak,
each butterfly is unique -
but none of them can speak.
Is it not a little odd, 
ev'ry page his bug-eyes trod,
were a kind of lightning rod
for the sad boy who played God.

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Gershon Wolf August 26, 2025 at 4:08 PM Salvador Dali is busy painting this poem right now. He should split the profits with you. David Crandall August 26, 2025 at 6:15 PM Haha, he told me it makes perfect sense - lol.

sara Etgen-Baker August 25, 2025 at 5:33 PM the almost surreal feel of this poem made for a compelling read. Loved the 'finale.' have a great evening, Sara David Crandall August 25, 2025 at 9:25 PM Thanks, Sara!

Daniel Henry Rodgers August 25, 2025 at 9:56 AM Hello David, You’ve built a world that’s strange and beautiful and tragic, and somehow it feels familiar. Like we’ve all wandered through that circus at some point, trying to make sense of the silence, the spectacle, and the things we’ve made that no longer speak to us. It certainly lingers, Blessings, David, Daniel David Crandall August 25, 2025 at 9:25 PM Hi Daniel, thanks! yep, it was kind of a weird one, but I enjoyed going there.