Beastly

He is a magnificent beast and I, I be his beast tamer, when the lights rise and he walks me on the stage, I hear the gasps from the crowd. That such as me would control such as him.
The whip of the arena does not sound for us, we are locked in the steps of a waltz older than he older than me Inside the music, we stop time, he and me. The sawdust of the arena and roars of delight escape us, I narrow into only he and my beast he has gaze for only for me. He watches me with his great dark eyes, and though he can not spk to me then I feel his thoughts keenly as an assasins dagger. We enslave the arena and the women swoon at my daring and his ferociouness. We do as we must he and me, we make sure they do not see and as the ringmaster returns they will not let us go. . . But we bow as we must. . .in the dark unseen spaces behind the great tents we seem to dissappear.
Some brave souls remain as the show is done, they look for my beast, Others seek me in the shadows behind the candy cane striped canvas, gallant dandies and the sons of honest fathers, they wish to save the girl from the beast. What they find they soon forget but such is the magick of this thing. In the shadows behing the showy red striped tent, the two clowns are asleep wrapped in a spangled blanket, tears marr the fine white of their make-up. They may come upon the flying trapeeze couple, taking wing in the night sky Angels, those seekers may find Madam Bellona among her horses, who speak in voices and have the chests and faces of men, a lost godess and her last hunt. Some come further still and make it past Hercules the resident strong man, yes that Hercules as he chats with the very stern faced magician of our stage once great enchantress Lady Morgaine. And further still the entrepid may come upon our ringmaster especially tired, his whip now a sword, arthur the once king now mere master. And at the end of these, should a seacher persevere he will come upon me curled up with my magnificent beast as we count the stars here. He will watch us laugh and love as we have done ever more. He will see us speak in a language deeper than words. He will see my magnificent beast with his wide corded shoulders and deep bass voice draw as I write our wonderings upon my great book. The seeker may find me magnanimous and I may tell him my story: a tale told in many guises, sometimes I am a princess of Snow white skin , others peasant girl with golden hair sometimes my beast a prince whose valour is famed, others he is himself, darkly beautiful. I will tell him of the Circus of Lost Dreams and how we the last heroes and myths man believes in float from city to city sustained on belief. He will listen to my tale and he will think himself a wise man. Some even vow to believe, to read the old stories so that we may be sustained. But on the touch of sunrise he will find himself asleep in an empty field. He may wake changed touched by the magick of stories, then again he may wake and continue his life ignoring the stories. And somewhere in a city many years from there where the citizens wipe sleep from their eyes, A circus has appeared where there was none last night, and the people watch as Bellona wipes down her centaurs taking them for horses, they see tumbling and swinging when the angels soar, they see a whip when excalibur sings and as the show reaches a climax and the magnificent beast and his keeper enter, they see fear and fright where we are the oldest of love stories. And as I loose myself in the world of my beautiful beast, I take comfort that whilst they may not know us as lovers. They feel what we are and deep in all their secret places love is alive as ever and as long as they keep faith with love, this belief will be enough so that I may forever be with he, he my magnificent beast and I his onliest love. . .