For the Love of Art · Love · Poetry

The Truth in Our Stories

Ashamed I was,

In your cruel absence,

As the long and dreary distance,

Stretched between us.

The dark nights that echoed,

The growling voice that bellowed,

The eerie chants that followed,

And knocked on my deaf ears.

For I was the clown in despair,

Painted face, disheveled hair,

I dared not utter a word of love,

Or name the one who broke my heart.


So I got a pretty little rose,

Perched on my little nose,

And a little sticky note,

With flowers and a bow,

To shut my little mouth,

Lest I cry out loud,

For I am just a clown,

Who can cry a rainbow!


That’s me, my love!

And I am adorned with lace and flowers,

From head to toe.

For I am as good as a corpse,

But it’s just that I can walk,

And talk and laugh,

But I am still a living joke,

Of my closest pains,

Of my deepest sorrow.


Oh, but look, here she is!

The damsel of your dreams!

The queen of your soul!

The one who ruined my own.

The lady of your life,

Your yesterday and tomorrow.

The glow of her skin,

I wish I could borrow.

I wish I had her lovely hair,

I wish I had the heart of hers,

That you would love until the end of time,

Even though you know it would be unfair.


Every corner of my wretched heart,

And every bit of my crazy mind,

Shrieked and screamed as the ghastly pain,

Poisoned me inside.

Yet she had to look pretty,

Just the way you’d like to see,

To that I would but agree,

For I am the clown, not she.

As every stroke of my brush,

Turned to a strand on her head,

My heart froze inside,

And I wished I was dead.

And I sat painting her beauty,

I just hope you can see,

The love that went into making,

Your love look pretty.


For our story is not our own,

It’s not just you and me.

Your heart is still hers,

And you are still mine,

And I am just a foolish poet,

Playing with misery and rhyme.


Long were the days, longer were the nights,

The serpents of our souls coiled in delight,

In another world, where no one ever fights,

They fed on the miraculous light.

They dwelt in harmony and grew in love,

Their world had no ‘mine’ and ‘yours’.

Hold on to their sinuous bodies, love,

They’ll take us where we want to go.

And it will be an eternal spring,

There will be an abundance of offerings,

The demon will rise from the depths of vice,

And surrender to nature with a smile.


The power of hope will unchain,

The soul who has been bound.

The pearl will glitter inside its cover,

Her feathered friend will be her lover,

And together they’ll fly away,

To a magical place on a sunny day,

And build a home where no other human,

Would ever care to go.


The mirrored mountains will reflect the moon,

The chimney smoke will dance to the tune,

Many joys the heavens will bring,

When the cosmic melodies the sky will sing.


The crystals raining on the jeweled springs,

For wandering minds and fluttering wings,

The valley of flowers,

A riot of colors,

The snaking river,

The endless hours.

Would all be there to ensure,

That the little clown in despair,

Never cries a rainbow anymore.

She’ll only paint her tragedies,

For there’s still some love in miseries,

There’s still some faith in felonies,

And there is still some truth,

In our world of words,

And in the universe of stories.



3 thoughts on “The Truth in Our Stories

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