You come with your neon hair and painted face,
delighting children ages five to ten.
They laugh at your red nose and your silly smile,
never paying attention to your bloodshot eyes.
There goes a parade of animal balloons
and slapstick acts that never go out of style.
You performed with such flair, without sweat,
like a pro you amazed, you enthralled.
You weave your magic and hold them entranced,
playing with their imagination with your glove covered hands.
Out comes Mr. Rabbit from your old battered hat,
then come the card tricks, everyone loved that.
Who can resist your little magic act?
The children loved it and begged for more,
this was exactly what you’ve been waiting for.
You told them to close their eyes and count to three
and you’ll show them magic they have never seen.
They closed their eyes and counted till three,
and when they opened their eyes you were gone, disappeared.
Where did you go they asked, where could you be?
They didn’t realize that it was not you who vanished
but each and every single one of them who loved your magic.
You stole their souls just like you did before,
you drank their joy and ate their laughter.
And now you’ve gone and spirited them away,
trapped their souls in your glowing glass balls
that now hang around your Christmas tree.

-The Elusive Scribe 103013-


Here lies a dormant corpse
strung up by its thumbs
way up high the darkened hall
tearstain left on rotting cheek
glistens as the light goes dim.

It’s been so long when last it spoke
now it watches with bloodshot eyes
searching the crowd passing by
for the one that torn it apart
leaving flesh with terrible gashes.

Blood no longer drips from wounds
for the heart no longer beats
an empty shell bereft of life
waiting for a chance to steal
time that its old love took.

Back when life freely flowed
with tenderness and love so true
but the end is always the same,
dreams come crashing down
broken time and time again.

And as the passage of hour comes and goes
the corpse that hung will wait forevermore,
for its old love to walk its path
ne’er minding if its old and bent
for at last it will have its revenge.

-The Elusive Scribe 101013-