Tales From The Circus: Carousels Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

At the cynosure of this
Madness is the carousel
Where we pirouette endlessly
As we are riveted to obscured
Creatures with gears for hearts

A tacit berceuse plays as
The gears whir in motion:
Each gear humming its electric roar;
A florid machinism
That intimidates no one but
The stones on the carnival floor -
Each one languid on the bare
Concrete.

From this drudgery
Of traipsing up and down
This lackadaisically crafted
Architecture, we resign to our
Carousels – a cycle of pointlessness:
Look at their faces.
Worn-out,
Weary
And vapid.

The man on the flying trapeze fractured a bone,
The machine-operators are tethered
To these rusting machineries,
The victors of the warfare of the cars
Grin triumphantly while the others
Are ravaged by defeat,
The faces behind the terrorizing revulsion
As the trains pass by are pallid
And now they quickly resolved
To this slow ride – a carousel
Hoping it affords any consolation.
But to no avail;

What a circus.
What a circus!