On hearing of the death of the clown.

On waking, the light seems muted, soft, a little grey,
And the sounds from outside are dulled, filtered through a wall
Of nothing. There is birdsong, but faint, as though the birds
Are made of clockwork, and have wound down.
Car engines rev up, and fade, but in the background,
A soundtrack to a faded film.
Moving into the day is difficult, there are chains on my legs
And my arms are dead, weighted down with memory.
I am slow, I stumble, I fall, and trip, my feet seem numb
And unresponsive.
In the midst of the morning, whilst trying to find a reason
To be alive, I find I have slowed, I have halted, no progress
Is more a moving backwards. The bed calls me, sleep,
Sleep that will dull the pain and the hopelessness of being.
Is there a reason for me to be? I cannot find a reason, I cannot
See one, I do not think there is one.
The world would carry on without me, and I wonder
If it would be a better place like that?

© 2ndwitch