the clowns
paint their lips
with pomegranate juice
tears roll down
through thick white makeup
the ringmaster sits
the king of dying dreams
his paper crown wilted
like the blossom of a rose
in the endless heat
of summer
his throne
a folding chair
speckled with rust
the elephants limp
painfully
skeletal with gaunt eyes
broken tusks
the empty bleachers
with ghosts of patrons
suicide daydreams
in the tattered big top
above ghouls soar
on the trapeze
of broken ropes
as shredded flesh
rains down
across the razor wire net
into the gaping maws
of the ravenous lions
black clouds of flies
swarm
with furious malice
the calliope plays on
through dark night
whispering
through the empty woods
a hint of malice
on a cool
autumn night