Wrath of the Clown..
Wrath of the Clown..2 mins 316 2 mins 316
The perceptible nip in the air,
When winter is knocking on one's door,
The festival of spirits and masks,
Of tricks and treats,
Usher the hibernation of warmth,
And the liberation of the unforgiving east wind.
Empty streets closed windows,
" Trick or treat, says the kids huddled together ",
But no one looks at an orphaned boy,
Who watches from a distance, lest they taunt him,
Deprived is he of house or hearth,
Yet the child within still glows,
And wants to play.
Cans of paints left on the wayside,
He colors his face with,
Makes a big smile, with a thick red brush,
Always the clown in life, by birth and the way of fate,
Also, none shall see the tears, though dull his senses become.
He walked the streets apprehensively,
A child's imagination, what cookies he may get,
But most screamed and shut their doors,
Scarce he could apprehend.
Till the group of kids saw him,
Afraid as he advanced, but with sudden violence,
Beat him badly, for fear of clowns was in town, coulrophobia they called,
Lay bleeding till release came,
His mother lifted him up, in her arms borne away,
But his anger, in all innocence,
Demanded revenge, for suffered had he too much,
Hence he always is seen on Halloween,
Smiling and looking, for the blood,
Which he bled, for the group of kids,
Knock, knock, open the door,
The clown has come for real.
A person of circumstances,
Whose heart and soul now bled,
But only anger and wrath,
Was his nemesis,
Injustice and mockery was his fate,
But the clown wiped his tears,
Smudging his painted face,
Now he atonement only in vendetta,
A person of circumstances dark
Had he become.