Pierrot at Sixty-four


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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.