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Poem

He glances ‘round the crowded room,
Where laughter sparks and joy resumes.
He plays along, a practiced mime—
Lifts his lips, but not in time.

For somewhere deep, his mind has flown,
His soul long gone, he stands alone.
What’s left behind, a hollow frame—
A shadowed man without a name.

And oh,
You cannot feign what isn’t true.
So smiles, like paint, began to skew—
A circus mask, a jester’s frown,
The silent tears of one worn down.

The clown remained, as days went by,
But joy, it wilted, left to die.
Behind the lens, a smile posed—
But all that gleamed was false, composed.

Where is the laughter? Where’s the cheer?
What once was light now disappears.
And all that’s left when curtains drown,
Are soft and salty tears of a clown.

He tried to hide the ache with grace,
But sorrow shimmered on his face.
And though he smiled, his eyes betrayed—
The hush where happiness once stayed.

Why, love—
It was the tears of a clown.

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