Clowns, no frowns, falsetto smile,
Rictus grin, deathshead grimace,
It’s Grym up North, where the wolfs head roams,
Grym not Grimm, Oath sworn, geas gripped,
Not below the Wall,
Ragnamok land, or so it should be,
No Tea for this party,
The brew here’s bitter, sour, reality dosed.
The lions pace, each pad the foot that falls down hard,
Bone jarred, back bruised, hard and heavy the shoulders load,
Hopes and fears, that weighted so,
A city load, that willed the wyrd
That cat must carry
And eldritch etched in runes that none now read;
It walked alone, a thousand eyes for company,
It’s guide a thousand yard stare,
A thousand cries the sounds that seek its ears,
The bang of blood the only one that filters through,
Words work not in flux of blood
A meaning to convey,
A meaning made instead at fires edge,
Before the blocks that man would build
To keep the dark at bay.
Claws retract, each sheathed in good intent,
But cats claws grow, and break their bonds,
In the dark to rend and find you.
Oh carnival, for whom, the music
Ringing loud and bright balloons adrift,
When in the rows such empty sorrow suppurates and soaks them so.
© Greg Richards
Written by request for a “Shades” Themed Poem in a derelict Carnival setting.