Hiding Behing My Ear

The children on stage look ghostly,
like lucid toys caged inside a shop lift.
Their tricks try to raise a smile,
but the teeth soon feel dull against my chest.

The room shudders in the morning breeze,
And the skeptics in the audience move with it.
And though I can still see through the clouds,
Pedantic overhead, something doesn't quite feel right.
I'm still in one piece, but is the box?