Fringe

You’ll find no succour here, shy child,
No sanctuary from life’s cruel blows
Just silhouettes on theatre walls
And daemons in their dying throes.

No painted fool, no blade-tongued bard,
No tale of sweethearts won or lost,
No prancing troupe, nor glib canard
Can thaw fell death’s untimely frost.

Yet in our glow, it glints and shines,
Its frigid, brittle beauty sings
And for an instant we forget
That ghouls await us in the wings.

And though you may find hubris here
From those who would swell bigger, soon,
Our three week city too shall pass –
Less Xanadu, more Brigadoon.

Look thus upon our crumbling world:
A star at dawn, a petal in the breeze,
A bubble trembling on a dreamer’s lid,
A thunderclap, a shadow, and a sneeze.

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