By: Marc A. Turner Copyright©2001



His words are heard loud

and echo through one’s mind


But his voice is never calling…

his sounds you will not find


Some take all they can hear;

few leave with just a trace


Most times his chamber’s empty…

hidden by the clown’s bright face


Smiles, cheers, and laughter

are not foreign to this guy


They seem to follow him,

for which he always wondered why


When they need someone to laugh at…

he’ll always play the part


The laughter always covered up…

the pain deep in his heart


Alone with all the ache,

he had so much he could not share


It often felt like no way out…

just too much to bear


Somehow though it always passed

and the world kept coming back


Spinning hard, floating…

in a cosmos colored black


Outlined at night by distant fires,

millions of light years old


He finally understood…

white-hot lightning, is sometimes just ice cold


The magic that one sees

in the beautiful twinkling of the stars


Is like the spotlight on the clown…

one sees the face, but not the scars.




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