Illusion of the Perfect Carnival

Oh what a facade!-
To be merry all year.
The horses prance ‘round,
Repressing their drear.

When the stage no longer whispers,
And day succumbs to night,
Painted stallions take flight!

Freely, they roam,
Escaping their spinning display called "home."
What a world it could be,
If carved wooden eyes were created to see.

As pastel skies rise again,
They return to their places.
Nobody watches their merry-go-round races.

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