my scribbled alcatraz

the ringmaster bows as the coffin passes,
rain dripping from the grey cold skies
the lion trainer sighs and shudders
slowly passing, the ballerina has died

seventeen years at the rise of her life
flying through hoops fifty feet from the ground
the clowns frown, the ushers pause to stare
as the coffin passes without a sound

alone by himself, the acrobat cries
as his aerial companion leaves forever
on her last flight of all flights
twisting, turning, fluttering wherever

huddled together, the dwarfs wonder why
standing apart, the palmist is confused
the cards and stars did not say this
she says all bad fortunes are loosed

seventeen years, at the rise of her life
alone by himself, the acrobat cries
the ringmaster, standing beside his wife
rain dripping from the grey cold skies

the ballerina has died,
she passed away briefly
the ballerina has died,
and no one knows why.