i am alone; the skull of rocks
grimace at the clown winter. In the starry epitaph,
I wash this blood from my hands;
the moon is my child
and the shore is a memory
exiled; entering alone,
it bares the imitation
epithet, known as our death-
Dreams atrophied like
the first bite of the apple,
and the last of the black lily;
broken minds, let the worms kill us
why not? The midday star falls like a bolide
in a selfhood of breasted
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Written for the dVerse prompt: Write a poem using the word clown or a word – real or created – with clown as the root.