The smile of a clown,

So false yet no one goes to reassure him.

His make-up runs as his tears fall,

Leaving trails of colour down his whitened face.

A piano in an empty room,

Torn and wrecked, nothing more than a skeleton.

He hears the notes as his tears fall:

As it is nothing more than a ghost of his song;

For the music it has played,

And songs it never will.

His fingers grace the once whole keys

Which now lie broken on the wooden floor,

He wipes the dust off the remaining chipped remnants

Leaving trails of colour through the whitened dust.

As he sits on the broken seat;

and he smiles,

Not the false smile that was painted on his face

But a smile that is honest and true

But the sadness still pools in his eyes, merely an echo,

He finds the notes with such ease,

Moving his hands over the remaining keys

And the broken house is filled with music once more,

Along with the tears of a clown.