Pierrot at Sixty-four

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Where once stood a smile,
now something else lies.
It’s not the frown of
the sad Pierrot, the fool
whose love for Columbine
is dashed by her attraction
to the dashing Harlequin —
but it could be. These stacks
of love letters returned,
unrequited, refused,
would sadden any man.

But that’s not a frown.

Where once pride braced
his strong countenance,
that shone like marble,
smooth and firm,
now flags one in windless
ennui. Its erstwhile attraction
become vestigial, serving
no purpose for an old face
resting beneath thinning
wisps of cloud,
still playing the clown.

But, it’s not a frown.

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