The grotesque
Twixt life and death
Of loss
Lost love
Of teardrops
And teardrop bottles
Uncollected
They lay beneath the Lilac Tree
Stored then, as unconscious finds
Transitory minds; the last one out
Turns off the lights
More chance than coincidence
More fiction than fate, berate
The tradition, it is then to be too late
To open the unexpected box
Either to ask the deeper question
Or to swing, as the fox by the sunlit fountain
Or fall, as did the clown, out-with
Of his crown, but weighted down
By his mountains of passions and pains
He was undone
As done
By deed, or gain, or fame, or shame
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