Carnivale

Ushered in through swinging doors

holding the little boy's hand,

into the tent

where empty promises and veiled threats

are mindlessly whispered

by the harbinger at the door.

You trade him coins

for a sliver of hope

in the form of

cotton candy and a Ferris wheel.

Somehow in the crowd

this boy's small hand slips

and wriggles from your grasping fingers.

In a moment, real life is traded for

a slow motion carousel ride

moving round and round

up and down

going nowhere.

Images flash as he is hustled away

by a tall man waving

a lackluster wand.

The boy is surrounded

swaddled in a cocoon

a prone apprentice

eyes closed against the blaring lights.

The magician's coat tails flap

selling perceptions of

a well choreographed macabre presentation.

Raven like assistants swoop and circle

then step back with grand open wings,

gestures begging

for the crowd's inspection.

The lights are dimmed.

The crowd falls silent.

He disappears, the boy.

A coffin like box sits

dark and ready.

The blade looms still and gleaming,

hungry for flesh.

Shadows dance along the walls

while he is hid behind a curtain.

A jester flashes cards

with black and white numbers

calculating life and death

while he sleeps.

You hold your breath

waiting for your Jack of hearts to appear,

for the curtain to lift.

Behind the linen, flashes of

sepia splashed in scarlet

metallic instruments draped in white linen

gnarled skin and broken bones

ghouls with rubber gloves

surrounded by flitting winged creatures

dripping potions from clear plastic bags

dancing around tubes and hoses

with perfect form and rhythm

each wearing a mask

covering intentions with measured indifference.

They are cutting thread and sewing

jagged lines,

dropping soiled cloths

onto the freak show floor.

You are drowning

as he lays behind the veil.

Dumb and mute

you wait, helpless

for the final act

the twirling ta da to end this long night.

Covering yourself in Lent promises,

lamenting the air in your lungs

that you can't trade it for

another chance

to hold on a little tighter

a little longer

to that little boy's hand.

Author's Note

This is a fantasy retelling of my experience of my son being in the ICU after a severe motorcycle accident.

Reviews

[Creepy Swine Guy]

I remember this. I asked you about it and you explained it to me. I thought I left a review on it afterward. Is this a replacement of an original, or did we perhaps just discuss this one via mails?

[Kristina Moulaison]

This is the original. We did talk about it just in messages. :)