A Spenserian sonnet about that most sinister of professions..
I was still but young when the Night Circus came.
The performers appeared in uniforms red.
Their faces were painted, they all looked the same.
Sinister, grim, rictus grins of the dead.
Huge boots advanced slowly; the villagers fled.
Those left to fate were consumed where they fell.
At my mother's wild eyes, my heart thrilled with dread:
The night we'd been warned of, the coming of hell.
She ran for her life, yet I was compelled
To linger for longer, my interest now piqued.
'I won't let you join them!' My mother had yelled.
They crowded like vultures, my outlook seemed bleak.
Still, it's not all that bad, becoming a clown.
Though I take off the grease paint when mum comes round.