Carnival of Ruin

Under the sickle moon, they gather in haste,

To feast on the agony, to savor the waste.

A carnival of broken bones,

Where laughter echoes, but not in tones you know.

—

The ringmaster grins, teeth sharp as knives,

A gaping maw where the shrieks thrive.

His eyes, cold glass, yet burn with flame,

A soul that perished, never to reclaim.

—

The clowns are twisted, masks smeared in red,

Painted smiles hiding the horrors they've fed.

Their hands, like daggers, tear at your flesh,

Ripping apart what’s pure, fresh.

—

The tents drip with blood, rusted with despair,

The ferris wheel creaks in its stagnant air.

Each ride a promise of sin’s embrace,

Where those who climb are erased from the race.

—

The midway hums with a breathless hiss,

Where souls are bartered, swallowed in bliss.

The fortune teller spins your doom,

Her every word a death-filled tune.

—

You’ll be claimed when the bell tolls its end,

A prize for the circus, your life to spend.

The crowd howls louder as you’re strung,

A puppet with strings, forever undone.

—

And when dawn’s light breaks the night,

No trace of your scream, no sign of your fight.

For in the carnival, you're just a lost soul,

Feeding the hunger, consuming the whole.