The Clown

The garish pasty visage of a corpse;
Greasepaint smelling more like formaldehyde;
Red hair reminiscent of Banquo's gory locks,
Lipstick that's been smeared on too thickly,
As though applied by a drunken mortician.

Clothes that don't fit.

Is it any wonder that we recoil in horror
When a clown in its oversized shoes
Fixes its hideous gaze upon us,
Then clumps its exaggerated gait toward us;
Grotesque goosesteps of malice,
Hands outstretched like a zombie
In search of brains to devour.

It's a visage that is meant to entertain us,
Yet it's the face of death that we recoil from,
The unnatural rouge of funeral cosmetics
In a carnival setting.

As the horrible harlequin lumbers toward me
I laugh, feigning the mirth that's expected,
But I have all I can do to restrain my impulse to

RUN!

Child's Play

Had I known
When I was a child
That as an adult
I would have so little time to play

I would have reveled in my time
As a child at play

I would have spent fewer
Of those irretrievable moments
Pretending to be
Or wishing to become
An adult.