I carry blades behind my bogus acts;
my buffoonery barely shadows
serpents and a smile as soft as scissors.
I am the corpse invited
to your children’s playground,
the grin of palest riders,
the scent of rotting teeth,
and the bramble-buried bones behind your dreams.
I am your choking laughter,
your falsehoods and the pestilence of putrid pride.
You might call me jester
or a clown and claim that when laughing
in my face, you win,
but when night comes crawling
you will briefly sense my claws and hear my snarl
before I slowly
snap your neck.
August 18, 2020