Dusts in her Eyes, Bring in the clown

 shreds of papers at the corner of her bed
words written and spoken, all read
over and over in quests for meaning
lost between the lines
there are grains yet unseen
between cracks of written conversations

she clutches them all
like a drowning man to a straw
blowing warmth on them
like fanning a dying ember
or reviving popsickled fingers
bound to emotional keyboards

there are distant rainbows
in her midnight skies
if only she can see them
Yet hopes are shredded yellow ribbons
on branches of guava trees
not for the past but for tomorrow

bring in the clown today
for nothing can save shredded papers
unless the words are written again
though alphabets are hard to find
the clowns with the balloons
and the screamy laughing faces
are her guests today.