The Big Top.

The Tent.

The winter's sun was forced beneath the rolling hills to make way for the dusk of the ebony night sky, the orange tinge imprinting itself across the trunks of bare trees. The winds chill brushed the branches, stealing what few leaves were left and laying them across the dusted path, disguising it like the rest of the sodden undergrowth. A few stray streamers and ribbons were laid at the bottom of the hollow trees, sprayed onto the tree's arms and caught on rubble and stone, frayed and distraught. Footprints were smeared across the floor from the rush, and belongs were lost across the route; But it was all so peaceful. Silent, apart from the occasional sweet scream of passing birds.

Behind a sea of pine trees stood the tent, with it's array of miss-shaped vibrancy, hidden from most of the world. Holes in the fabric had given up, as the strands of the damp material flew with the wind,wanting to escape the clutches of the weak sculpture. There was a strong smell of burning polystyrene and scalded metal, which scraped down the back of your throat with a bitter and sour taste. Posters of an opening night flew free with the gusts, some had been caught of the sturdy metal poles holding up the entrance to the nightmare.Sculpted faces grinned as you walked through the gap in material that had intended to be welcoming, but the eyes followed your every move,infatuated with you, stalking you; but the faces had melted. Smiling eyes and shining smiles had turned into the deepest of sorrow, the depths of despair and loneliest of lives, but they remained. By now the moon's beams had struggles through the patches of weakened textiles, creating multi-coloured shapes on the floor. The fake mirrors were mistook reality, altering all images in front of them,but deeper inside laid the true falsity of the plot.

Looking up to the heavens was an arranged make-believe sky. A shallow blue sky shone down on where previous people below had sat, diamond gems glittered in the luminescence of the full chromatic moon. Yet, the comparison through the openings of the velvet backdrop disclosed the night's true identity. The stars didn't shine, they were dull, and the moon wasn't yellow, but a ghastly egg-shell white, nor was the sky a softened dark blue, but an austere sheet of shadow. Dangling limply down, hung the acrobatic ropes. Not strong or robust, but hanging by a thread. The lambent shade of garden pink had faded to a dim burgundy, with burnt ends of charcoal black. Any amount of weight they would surely have snapped, maybe even a mild nudge of the exhalation outside would send the knots falling.

Cool drafts shot though the gaps, filling the arena with the damp-smelling freshness, rattling the metal pipes and swinging the carnival flags.It was dim, and dark inside. In no way could the poorly chosen colours change the mood, no light could bounce off them spreading a rainbow on the ground. No music could be played, spreading the eerie joy of organ music and amateur wind musicians that could accompany the acts. No acts would be performing, their stage now riddled with wood-worm and worries, their equipment missing and mouldy. No audience in the tattered material chairs, the neat rows from before a distant memory, as they are now thrown in every which way and piled high in the corners. 

It could never be alive, but never be dead.