It was fair game until it yielded no gain. The lion’s mane you bore became the perfect walking cane, until it tripped your feet and hurled you into gravity’s embrace You sit now in the only seat you can claim: a stage for every gaze. Still, you wear the mask, the guise of majesty— the king of clowns, smiling while the throne shakes beneath you Have you ever breathed the febrile dust of despair? Your pink lungs will thank you for it Lungs that know only of the sultry air of assaugement. The eulogy must hit like white vinegar to a blocked nose Your senses will shake you awake from the slumber you were born into Have you ever tasted a wine fermenting of regret? You refuse to try it, finding comfort in the wounds your ego continues to chip at. A mouse addicted to the feel of the mahogany. How much more before the circus leaves town, and sees you homeless and clownless Before you crack.