His features get painted
Chalky with clogs up, his pores his brows turn black.
And necrose his face.
Red covers his nose with blood.
Gets it out of proportion
What is making him up? Chalky with clogs up.
His confused incredulous eyes were opened
And look down his legs
In a too big pants.
Accorded to puffed sleeves and disproportionate shoes.
See, the mocked-grin Clown.
He skids on the cobbles: fucking calcos! Dying to shoot in the air, dying to burst this street, this town, this rain.
Step by step, like a idle snail, he lefts behind him a sparkly steaks on the road.
Words knock.
“I need to go back under the big top “
He doesn’t understand, don’t look back Karl.
As he stands near the streetlight, he was sucked up by a powerful breath. He loses his balance; he tries to hang on to the strips of pavements, gets back on his feets again.
He begins to understand, he has no shadow anymore.
Wherever he rushs, wherever he turns, the darkness doesn’t give him anything back.
The nights stop to draw his haunted outline on the walls. He hardly starts to run with intractable knees ant out of breath.
Someone seems to be behind him, on the way to catch him. Be careful Karl.
His features get painted
Chalky with clogs up, his pores his brows turn black
And necrose his face
Red covers his nose with blood.
Gets it out of proportion
What is making him up? Chalky with clogs up.
His confused incredulous eyes were opened
And look down his legs
In a too big pants.
Accorded to puffed sleeves and disproportionate shoes.
See, the mocked-grin Clown.
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