clowns stand in the rain
and cry
they line the streets like lampposts
lightning cuts jagged sections of sky
I smoke in a doorway
trying to stay dry
in the cigarette smoke, I see ghosts
faces of old chums
some dead
some just gone
visions of city lanes
and highways I've known
show clearly the path
that I have taken
yet reveal no things
as to how I ended up here
or schemes and dreams forsaken
it's easy to know when and what
but there is no clue why
how long will this downpour last
I look up to the sky
and inside, I wonder
why do these clowns cry?
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