The Funambulist

They call me - The girl who dances on the rope.
Every morning I rise up with this name,
Walking on the wire, as my balance I cope.
People gathered to watch the show, illusion fame.

My skin soaks up heat,
Their eyes widen, as I step on the wire with my feet.
Yes, there's nothing romantic about my dance,
But they don't know my half conscious state of trance.
I manage to give them my numb mechanical smile,
My daily dose of monotonous lie.

I remember the night we fled from the village on promenade,
When the blazing fire took all we ever made.
Mother held my back as she cried along all the way.
Never in my life I thought I'll be living in these city lights,
Entertaining these dazed people, in a way it never feels right.

They stare at my skirt, my shameful knee,
No, I can't blush, just something shouting from within -"set me free!".
My mother tells me to stand in pride.
Atleast, we don't beg on the road to the people who stride.

Mother holds me on my drunken father's frown,
As my house of mud , collapses down.
All these heavy thoughts strike me as night sets through the window pane,
I'll rise up to be the dancing girl again.

I am a freelance writer and a college student in Statistics. I live in India.