Retreat

I've never failed at holding tears with
                                            the face of a clown
Dancing for quarters without my face worn
                                    sends distress pouring out
Could I go back into the wild
                                 blade held within a crouch
Should I run away once again
                                 for solice of not knowing how
Would I survive more than having no more
                                        another time minimally
There's always jokes and flowers
                                  tumbling as an older animal
The trains are there with big bad babies
                                            hating what I am
What's wrong with a clown fancying art
                                          yet fealing artisan
I've stood on poles labeled far from soap boxes
                                   the ones that held provisions
Falling back into my old self
                        a hobo looking for paint to draw a grin
Has my retreat failed me in passed days                                              
                               for the knoweledge of my own sins
My sin is not that I am a clown
                                 at least I know what I am
My failure is that I would flea
                                  to hunt for a smile's den

Poem by: m.e.l.