blood on hands.

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-

sentence.  

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

dismay.

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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.

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