Just across the rusted iron fence
Clowns are hurried by impatient clownherds,
With waiting markets only
A fashion away. On the same property
Witches are burned and their ashes
Sold as fertilizer to farmers
Who bring their wheelbarrows to the incineration.

Every thing runs on a schedule.

In the woods, just off the open run,
Young mothers are teaching their children
To scream. It is good
To have the quiet shattered.
The talent will serve them well.

I have known about this place
All of my life. It holds my history.

And you?
What do you see in such unkempt property?