The Poet

The Poet

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

Ascent Out Of Madness by Ronald Porter ©2016

Along cold concrete paths, we wander, 
hoping to escape the pain.
We walk slow with heads hung low, 
like clowns crying in the rain.
Grief stains remain in vain, from dreams, 
left abandoned long ago.
The mask behind another mask smiles; 
the heart beneath the mind wears a frown.
Life is downside up and outside in ;
 taste the colors and smell the sound.
I remember more of the forgotten,
 than you ever got to know.

And, the tears of the clown (hear them crying),
etch lines in the grease paint (listen to the roar)
while flowers turn faces to the sky,
to drink the falling rain (let it pour, let it pour).

Bloody footprints  slowly wash 
from the sidewalk into the gutter;
False preachers, false teachers 
and, false lovers keep on lying;
there is no antidote for all the things 
fools choose to believe.
'Tis the reason that clowns stand, 
in the storm's fury, crying.

And...the tears of a clown,
salty and warm (please, keep us from harm),
Soothes away fear
The answers wait, in that mournful sound
listen closely, you will hear

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