Relics of a Carnival

Memories rise from the folds
of her wooden gown
as she stands on a broken float,
its tattered canopy hanging in forlorn rags.

Her painted face, cracked and dirty,
watches over a graveyard of rusted frames,
dead machines, and twisted cables.

Something brought her back to this place.
Awoken by a sound after all this time
of being alone, she still stands
a statuesque queen atop her float.

Behind the crumbling carousel
a muted neighing can be heard
and the ghostly figure of a white horse,
once intricately painted and gilded,
slowly rises on stiff and weather-worn legs.

A loud crack and the screech
of rusted nails drawn from wood.
The heavy thud of hooves.

Then the moonlit glimmer
of a ghostly horse and its regal rider
disappearing into the distance
of another plane.

Ω

Editor’s Corner

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