In the stillness.
Floating, uncommitted.
Disjointed and blithe.
There is no merry-go-round: no dance.
While the empty flatbeds haunt the fields,
Bluntly separating the mist,
The spires are like daggers, piercing the sky.
The laughter of the day has drifted away.
Frozen swings and static lullabies,
Distant breaths of beasts and giants.
A zephyr intrudes, waking the skin;
The coliseum of tight flesh moves,
Not in hostility, nor anguish, nor want.
The tentacles rise and fall helplessly,
Then lay again to rest.
Come sunrise.
Come colour.
Ringmaster Ethan..
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