LIVING ON THE HIGH WIRE. We all come too close to the edge sometimes, by accident or desire, this poem is a warning to all those living on the high wire.

LIVING ON THE HIGH WIRE.     We all come too close to the edge sometimes, by accident or desire, this poem is a warning to all those living on the high wire.

LIVING ON THE HIGH WIRE.

You’re walking a tightrope over the street,
people look up and say,
just one slip and he loses his grip,
I don’t want to clear the mess away.

You’re running from strangers
dressed in black,
you can’t seem to get away,
you just hope that you
get lost in the crowd
or hide in some dark doorway.

You’re in the Catacombs,
dusty and old,
playing to sleepy John,
the man outside is selling parched peas
so you recon the vigils on.

You’re walking on shards of broken glass,
stepping on tongues of fire,
one of these days you’re bound to fall
living on the high wire.

You’re making a pledge on the dotted line,
signing your life away,
just remember you pay tomorrow
for what you buy today.

You’re taking a gamble, taking a risk,
betting your shirt away,
desperate times need desperate rhymes,
lady luck’s on her way.

You’re walking on shards of broken glass,
stepping on tongues of fire,
one of these days you’re bound to fall,
living on the high wire.

FGD 2007.

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