The illusion of Number

 
Walking the tight-rope,  
fragile jam-jar preserving the self,  
ready to be crushed;  
higher human values, mythicized;  
destination forgotten, origin unseen.  
 
You are just a number.  
 
 
Libations poured for alcoholic Master,  
née-farious man-God, willing servant to debauchery,  
eager for Revenge.  
 
There is only one  
 
...unless your troupe has plagued the circus skies with others,  
in which case there are more...or less  
 
 
On the qui vive for Pyrrhic victories,  
the Deceiver awaits,  
plucking at the bow of your defeat.  
 
I am No. 1,  
 
He whines.  
 
Pygmean in his virtue,  
sloped back, an arch,  
forming the chasm of the Sarc.  
 
You will fall to your Death,  
 
and it will amuse.  
 
10 points, pints, all round.  
 
 
Ghostly figures will catch,  
non-existent germs,  
mirages in the gulf of despair.  
 
Another one please, Keeper  of the Bar.  
 
 
 
Counting, the idlest of traits:  
insipid dismissal of the beauty of the unique.  
 
Toxic lies in celebration,  
decanted:  
 
What a good year!  
 
 
The pitcher painted by the unbeliever,  
the score poured over by the Sorcerer,  
a lowly farce.