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Tears of a clown
In the halcyon hush of twilight meadows,
a clown carves laughter from hydrangea elixir,
his smile — a fuchsia epitaph,
hidden behind a dazzling white glow.
Sparkling countless orbs drift from his broken pockets,
ghosts grow wishes in splotchy shade,
each sangria song he sings
splinters against the opalescent primrose sky.
Serendipitously, sorrow stitches his grin —
a mystical black ballet performed
for an audience of lustrous fireflies.
Coral summer nights smell wonderful to others,
but he drifts alone in purple dreams,
his burgundy luna heart heavy with
psychedelic echoes of forgotten cheers.
Spree silvery jewels tumble down his cheeks —
not laughter, but
the silent fabric of darkness knit with marvel,
where every jest
hides another tear.
Copyright ©
Jay Narain
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