Step behind the heavy curtain where the torches sputter dim, They gather in the shadows where the light is thin and gray. Each one carries a secret that the village pushed away, A living cabinet of wonders built on silent pain. The barker raises up his cane to split the heavy air, Calling to the faceless crowd that throngs the sawdust floor. Coins are tossed onto the wood to buy a ticket for the show, To stare at what the world has decided not to love. A woman sways in rhythm with the giant cobras' coil, Her hands move slow like water through the heavy humid heat. Fangs of venom whisper softly just an inch against her neck, A dance of liquid danger under flickering oil lamps. Beside her stands a silhouette with cold steel in his hands, Guiding silver blades right down his throat into his chest. Every breath a razor edge that separates the flesh from steel, Holding back the silence while the gasping crowd recoils. The electric girl steps forward as the copper coils hum, Sparks jump from her fingers into blue and crackling light. Voltage surges through her skin without a mark or trace, Illuminating pale faces frozen in the dark. In the corner sits the quiet giant from the northern hills, Weighing more than iron anvils, towering above the crowd. Yet his eyes are soft and gentle as a child's upon a bed, Hiding underneath a coat too heavy for the skin. Out beside the wagon wheels the keeper pours the wine, Sharing quiet stories when the midnight audience has gone. Laughter echoes softly now that all the masks are dropped, Resting aching muscles underneath the open sky. No one asks about the towns they had to leave behind, Or the mothers who concealed them in the attic rooms of dread. Here they share a common blood that runs through broken glass, Bound together by the mirror that the normal world denied. Soon the dawn will break the canopy and break the magic spell, Wagons rolling down the road before the sun is high. Leaving only footprints pressed into the muddy lane, Phantoms of the midnight circus vanishing away.
