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Eden of Clowns
Regal strong tree, with glass leaves of thin green,
brittle cold roots intertwined in my soul.
Light in dark, shelters nothing to be seen,
amongst a Black Sea hid in calm control.
Yet all who dwell in its trickery there
share each other’s faces and fingerprints.
Soft pink lips crafted with nary a care.
“But does this reign true?” sub consciousness hints.
Perfect paradise, where all wish to be
with smiles pulled and twisted permanent.
But nothing, no one, is perfect you see.
At night strangers weep, nothing said is meant.
In the Eden of Clowns everyone lies,
Forever the same and nobody dies.