The Clown

 

Another long drink, cascades from my glass,

The remains of my last Scotch washed down!

 

Bracing myself for the task that's been charged,

I clench my tattered, gloved fist,

Raging inside at my self imposed scars,

My faults far too long for a list,

Who am I but a mournful clown?

 

The chair screeched out painfully, as I stand to exhale,

Thick wisps of smoke without sound!

 

Thanking the landlord for his kindness and gin,

I hasten to exit the bar,

My cracked pallor face, is guilty of sin,

As I leave to begin my journey afar.

Who am I but a wearied clown?

 

The streets are still empty, except for the sun,

Its lush golden beams bathe the whole town!

 

 I search for some shadows, to cool off my thoughts,

Their path leads to a circle of trees,

Approaching their centre as if to be shot,

The nine Elders stare with displease.

Who am I but a fearful clown?

 

The hours become murky and along with this dark,

Fear slowly envelops my surrounds.

 

As I bask in their judgment, they sway to confer,

Whispering with creaks and long sighs,

Finally silence, their sentence inferred,

My soul has to be cleansed of its evil and lies.

Who am I but a woeful clown?

 

The mossy soft embankment by the watering hole,

Offers comfort before I am crowned.

 

I fall to my knees; hands forming a chalice,

The ice water splashed sees my make up disturbed,

My blood red stained lips, once a symbol of malice,

They're now washed leaving my ethos perturbed.

Who am I but a born again clown?

 

The cool air of night, mixed with the warmth of the day,

Invites a cold mist to shiver my bones bound!

 

Purposely strolling to drink in the chill,

I calmly resist the temptation to roam,

Thanking the lord for sparing that kill,

I walk to the place I call home.

Who am I but a purposeful clown?

 

A poem by Tomas Bird

04-09-2008