Fixed

The infinite grace of a tight-rope walker,
Seconds before the fall,
Bedazzles the knowing into a vacuum
Of vaporized thoughts,
Beguiles the logic into a blank spot
Of a foot perfectly poised,
Safe in the muscle-memorized habit
Above the frozen applause.

If I am the walker, you’ll have to promise,
Seconds before the fall,
To break the spell of infinite stupor
And give me a gentle push.
Amidst the horror, cries and commotion
Let in the tide again.