• Fingers turned to stone knobs, the bite of toil a continuous plague in the Carnival of Greah....

    Far-type thrill surges through your skin, make-believe love toward your kin, but hollow teeth are searing down.
    Torches spark but don't ignite, no more ends to meet, for plight, your greatest of the time.
    My hardest scold is treasure, my wonder cave a damp dark pleasure, your curse is cast, a joke at last, now close your eyes and forget the past.

    Dreams are in the pipes, flowing mass of all cold types,
    Kafka foul-renewed and I get back up again.
    Stony visage with dagger dream, cut the cloth but mend the seam, sacred oathe betrothed, and I fall back down again.

    Love captured fast in a swathe of helium, encased in a bulbous cocoon of human efluence, then finally strangulated with a piece of string.
    This happens much at the Carnival of Greah....

    The balloon stutters away from the wind, empty clutters comprehend, lips kiss the lustered ground.
    Gasps of hitch fill them all, moans continue to drop and fall, the smell of saliva in the air.
    Candied promises wrapped in sin, mixed with water and some gin, killing the incarnation. Disintegration....
    Forked tongues penetrate into the soul, shattering a purpose that is no longer whole.
    Eyes filled with a sparkling gaze held dear, hypnotized by the push of fear, muffled by writhing, shrieking pleasure.

    The balloon's dream inside the Big Top, never to bleed and never to pop, walking slither on through the crowd, hair and lips scattered on the ground.
    Dagger dream waits at your side, meaning taken and hope complied, but not to worry, for he himself has something in mind.

    Rusty death summoned with icy visage, the handle and barrell configured into a monstrosity; now preformer, shatter that which is no one's.....

    Raise your palm and all, the balloon shouting that it shall never fall.

    Kafka glances at but the slightest touch, and then you'll go back down again.

    The Man in the Blue Coat raises a gun, pointed at your sweet, sweet love, Greah watches from his tower, filled with sorrow at the sight of power, tragedy, and the inevitable crushing of your hope.
    bang....

    A shot echoes with the soul, preaching all sorts of sounds without being droll, as the bullet passes through the fair grounds.
    Greah's subjects are in panic, repeating the scream that emits from thou heretic, covered in his own moss, I suppose, it's really no loss.

    A bullet wrapped in sin, righteous judgment and paraffin, bubble gum streaming from the sides, with some cotton candy along for the ride. Darkened laughter and a face painting, cover a tip thats now frolicking.

    Top hats scattered around, off from the walls they can now rebound. A lion tamer's trailer park, shattered collars and with some guts ripped apart. Eyes are all that's left, now (and so the lion eats them too). Feathers stuck to the bullet, with the clothes of a whore, but wait God! There's more! Darts and trolley carts, with empty stomachs filling the lines of the Carnival. All of the inhabitants wrapped around the bullet, the voice of Greah screaming in the Ringmaster's stead, orchestrated by a typhoon of hatred.

    The bullet, tipped with the nose of a clown, explodes through your hand....

    Your tendons screaming for a cure, but while muscle-bound, can they endure? The bones of broken lies, below a balloon intent on the skies.
    Your lust floats away, while leaking it's foul decay, stings of serpent rhines, slithering among the stars.
    The sphere now lost in the stars, tears streaming from your pores, beauty realized in true meaning, Greah is watching but smiling, the sky seems pure (can we Endure?), the Knight of Escape crashes down to Earth, awaiting your arrival.
    Oh, so sweet it is,
    So blissful, it seems,
    What love, it seems,
    Hope, it soon will be......
    Now the trapdoor opens beneath your feet, and you plummet down once more....