Carousel

Out on the field where daisies live

and elements of men remain

there stands a haunted carousel

silent now, and just as well.

The ponies still in frozen prance,

the wind and rain made colors pale

yet once their brightly painted hooves

fell softly to their merry dance.

And children's laughter echoes 'round

among the ponies' gilded heads,

or is the wind designed to mock

and conjure up that mournful sound?

The mirrors, cracked along the wheel,

and blinking lights no longer shine

the moon reflects in still, black eyes

the daydreams of a child to fill.

Now paled by sun they fade away,

the carousel, a silent tomb

some say that on a summer's eve

one still can hear the ponies play.