Pierrot

My heart tastes of wet clay,
its hue to match my cotton gloves
fresh set for the first play,
my beating,
to tease a black tear,
some oil to drip a shadow
of my flesh
onto my broken breast.

Pathos, empathy, you might cry
as you watch my white of outfit die
into black skin of weeping.

Perhaps a painted whip-scar's speak
would be less pathetique,
for the more I wear, the more I hide,
like snow among the shadows' creeping.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.