In the heart of a tawdry town,
a tattered circus whispered its arrival —
banners frayed, swaying against
the sigh of the wispy winds.
Clown-face, the painted enigma,
a frozen grin that dared
no truth beneath its languid looks.
His children, cloaked in dark rags, somber shadows of their father,
lived beneath the curtain of their starless world,
in a caravan bruised with time.
One night, Emerson wandered in,
a young and eager seeker of stories.
A historian, drawn to the mask.
He accepted the offer:
a drink in a bar,
conversation,
a glimpse beneath the paint.
But Clown-face arrived late,
his costume still clinging to his skin,
hiding an evil second body.
Under the amber bar lights,
his emerald eyes gleamed sharply,
hiding a blade within velvet words:
“Come to my caravan.”
Emerson, restless, agreed.
The tent breathed decay.
Inside:
A drink—its sweetness bittered with lack of sleep.
The room tilted —lights stretched and shattered.
Darkness clawed at his skin,
held by the metal chill of chains,
bound in the breath of thin canvas.
Beyond, the circus lights pulsed,
a heartbeat foreign to his own.
Clown-face stood near,
tears carving rivers through paint,
revealing the skin of something
too human, too monstrous.
Emerson retched as the face surfaced,
at the truth dragged into the light.
Soon the mask returned,
a perfect lie smoothed by
the steady hands of a demon.
“I only wanted to share myself,”
Clown-face whispered,
his apology slicing deeper than any threat.
In the mirror of a makeshift bathroom,
Emerson saw himself,
a map of despair sketched onto his skin.
The makeup bottle trembled in his hand,
its warning glinting—a skull and crossbones.
Behind him, the reflection grew darker,
the grin of Clown-face stretching wide.
"You were never meant to leave,"
he murmured.
When Emerson awoke again,
the circus had claimed him—
Crowned: The Clown Who Never Smiles.
His face, a permanent horror,
lips bloodied into cruelty,
a nose of spiteful red.
No child dared embrace him.
His warmth was smoke—
a dying ember between cracked teeth.
In the "circus of the grotesque",
he danced, drugged and deranged,
a prisoner of painted lies.
His story— a whispered curse,
forever spinning under the warped stars
in a tent that never sleeps . . .
The Clown Who Never Smiles.
