a well-lit place.

how much is it for a pony ride, mister?

this dying carnival of white-lit dreams

seems a fiction fashioned for the middle-

aged mary and has-been prodigies. what

happened to our cotton candy youth? the

gazing at clouds? the stars were once 

a thing of wonder. now just more pin-

pricks to fear. wonderlost stings thin,

plastic skin. the lard builds up around

a heart, forsakes once appleround

cheeks. leaves sad fat zombie eyes

gazing into funhouse mirrors, all

dressed up in top hats and lace. i

hate to say it, but your shoe's come

untied. and that unicorn lock you ribbon-

ed to your throat comes from a rabbit 

i found oozing death in the dirt.