Saturday, November 23

Something Wicked

He stole into the moonlit night
Beheld a fright
Blanched horses' flanks
He turned the crank

And round the dark stampede began
The wooden clan
Like glit'ring gems
Below brass stems

Churning, groaning, dead yet living
Colors blurring
Carillon whirring

Carousel of something wicked
Took his ticket
Glossy nostrils
 Snorted peril

Bright bulbs fizzled, faces mirrored
Shrieking terror
Stallion hooves stomped
Clacking teeth chomped

Then--no more--the music stilled
The foaming horses ate their fill

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