Clown

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He hadn’t meant to scare the child,

His clumsiness, his disgrace,

A twisted turn in happy events,

A sudden new bend.

With his hand held out,

White-gloved pureness,

And his head bowed down,

Pale skin dull,

He watched them fleeing,

High and low,

The children and their innocence,

Hand in hand they go.

Yet that goodness wasn’t for him,

He the foreign friend,

His closeness made them balk,

His presence made them run.

His jokes were not funny,

Their eyes went wide,

His smile wasn’t comfort,

Creepiness aside.

That’s all he’d always wanted,

To make the children laugh,

To create gentle giggles,

In tiny little hearts.

But being a clown wasn’t,

As they had always said,

Though the red lips on his face spread wide,

His soul was dead.

--Aqsa Mustafa

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