The Ringmaster’s world

The showman adorned,
In an embellished shroud,
Lies on the bed of nails,
As if lying on a couch.

A performer swallows deep,
A furious flaming torch,
A man aims darts at another man,
Tied on to a scarlet-circled target.

A biker plays with his circle of life,
In the dark well of death,
Racing cars combust to carbon
Racing drivers like Paul Walker.

The flyer is hanging by a trapeze,
A clinger holds the fellow,
By his mere weary teeth,
Till the trapeze swings, they swing.

The red Ringmaster controls all,
And performers dance and spin,
As they look at death in the face,
Once called, into oblivion,
They blow away.