The Ringmaster stands alone

amid the charred remains

of the big top.

A canvas masterpiece

once a kaleidoscope

of joy

and laughter

now a burned

blackened skeleton.

Empty.

Contorted steel

once grandstands

full

of every kind of people

lost in the flames.

Three rings

once promising an

eternity of happiness

now unrecognizable

in the ruins.

The marquee was an Eden

a world

delighting all

with wondrous miracles.

No-one left to mourn.

The Ringmaster breaks down and cries

for He created the Circus.

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