Trapeze

Smiling is officially a charade;
Hiding some profound subliminal sadness,
The root of it cannot be cured,
Or even found,
Yet they perform each night,
The audience celebrate their frivloity,
Mocking them;
Reducing the performers' hearts to liquid,
Devoid of sympathy or emotion.

Then they have a glint in their painted eyes,
One of self pity; the very essence of their inadequacy,
Immortalised in their illustrious faces,
Merciful and merciless, they perform once more,
Winning an applause,
Of both joy and sorrow,
As the clowns perpetually perform each night,
For the same present: a packet of peanuts and a sparse appreciation,
Then it is back to the circus of humiliation forever more.