Under the Big Top, where sequins catch light
like constellations of mirth, I am the supernova
of guffaws, the black hole of solemnity.
My painted smile, a crescent moon curve,
belies the saltwater streams that threaten
to erode this carefully constructed facade.
I juggle rubber chickens and shattered dreams
with equal dexterity, each toss a defiance
of gravity and expectation. The crowd roars,
a tidal wave of delight that crashes
against the shore of my isolation.
In the mirror, greasepaint becomes war paint,
red nose a battle standard. I wage war
on sadness, armed with seltzer and slapstick.
But in the quiet after the show, as I wipe away
layers of mirth, I wonder: who is the fool?
The one who laughs, or the one who makes them laugh?
My tears are invisible ink, writing a story
of loneliness on a face creased with mirth.
Each sob, a pratfall of the soul,
each whimper, a silent horn honk
in the cacophony of an indifferent world.
Tomorrow, I’ll don my motley again,
step into the spotlight’s unforgiving glare.
I’ll trip and tumble for their amusement,
a whirling dervish of orchestrated chaos.
But tonight, let the clown weep,
let the jester’s bells toll a somber tune.
For even Pagliacci must sometimes
remove his mask and face the music.
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