Two-Way Funhouse Mirror

'For whom is the fun house fun?'
John Barthe, Lost In The Funhouse

The waddling crowd,
silver glossed uneasy smiles.
Flashes of beauty wished,
glimpse of deformity cursed.

Behind the smoke mirrored,
The beautiful and the grotesque,
disgusted and vengeful, removed by
thin silver optics fractured and twisted
by the hot sea of blank eyes.

The crowds unease builds to resentment,
In the dark, unseen disgust builds to cruelty.

Cracks spider web and universal panic spreads.

The self-proclaimed heirs to
the pre-dawn builders of mirrors,
the ambitious repairmen of all sides,
go about their quiet work unnoticed.

On The Mountain Top

Was this the mountain top the good doctor spoke of?
Lonely but always the steep sides his friend.
Standing alone, without even the granite as comfort
Cold wind and a precipice on every side.

A memory of this fear from the foot hills years ago.
Now the precipice is real not imagined.
Self doubt a nearly unaffordable luxury
The sleeping and fearful tyrant in everyman’s heart stirs in his
The soaring heart of the hopeful hero in hopeless fight
Now a fond memory.

“Humility tempers the tyrant
Love steadies the feet upon the crest”
He whispers, half believing
half hoping it’s true.