The paint brushes dry against the clouds
After gracing our faces with something twirled up,
That kicks up dust from the model set down below,
Building plans that made themselves
When ants moved on from hills.
The stains bleed into dissolving cotton
Candy melted in the carnival sun,
And lifeless birds learn to fly
Leaving a path of silly strung droppings
On the burnt sugar funnel cake stand.
The children cry in line for their fears,
They say they want to go up,
But the view's fine from here.
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