Like a clown still white-faced from last nights circus
he wanders through walls smoke first
whispering sin to the half-light of day.
A rain cloud comes,
new ghosts like weeping winds to tame the day.
He ascends through a rang of moments,
plastic as the coversheets over antique troves of treasure.
He need not thieve anymore,
or give gifts to the pure.
His thoughts grow ugly with unaccountable dreams,
He flops upon a bus seat and waits for journey's end,
where the blistering blue awaits,
his bright lips red throwing new surprises
onto faces reflected in the window.
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