There is the shop, seemly frozen by the night
it's granite letters makes cold its welcome
the moon is full as figures within seem to move
but none inside are of flesh and blood.

The closer you get to it, the colder you feel
for this is Marionettes
shop of clowns, to grotesque dolls starring blankly
a bazaar, a mix of dreams and nightmares.

Some loiter by the lead laced windows
as if forming a way of escape from their crowded prison
others at the back of the shop seem resigned to their fate,
of gathering dust, becoming phantoms and shadows.

Every time I have walked passed this shop
I hear ghostly laughter
sometimes whimpering echo's
but this time I hear a cry for help.


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris