Poem: The Funhouse

Funhouse

The Funhouse

It tilts. It moves.
The floor falls out underneath you.
The rules change. The light shifts and flickers.
Somewhere, someone is laughing
maniacally.
Somewhere, too often, someone is crying.
Faces leap out at you,
implacable and unfeeling,
somehow worse than
the monsters we were taught to fear,
blind to blood.
There is music. Here and there a note rings
false, as if the music itself is a lie.
In the distance, where the light lives,
there is another song,
a weeping anthem of hope and revolution.
You were not prepared to be so unsettled,
so unsure which way your safety lies.
A scream fills the air. Not a shriek to scare,
but of pain. Somewhere in the dark.
There is no one to lead you. Each ghoul
beckons you in dark corners,
sinister in their suits. Blood on their cuffs.
In the end, you fall back on your faith.
John calls you in a faint whisper.
“Forward.”  Always forward.
Through the darkness, toward the light.
Leave the ghouls behind to whither
in their own darkness.
You will not allow it to be yours.

About this poem. 

If I told you where this poem began, you would laugh. Poems are like that sometimes – they take strange and convoluted journeys.

An anthem for the time we are in.

I never understood why they called them funhouses. They were always a bit horrific.

In the poem “John” refers to the disciple John, who wrote what is sometimes called the gospel of light. ‘

Forward my friends. Always towards the light.

Tom

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