Their sweetest friends' tears are only deliberate pauses in an orchestra. The sky is devout, now -- like a tomb, and there is no grinning prophecy for the wicked or the innocent. It is grey, and it is full of life. Brisk gusts bite at some skinny girl's ankles, and her nose turns red, like a clown. And all the king can accomplish is the supression of his solemn weeping, watching his beautiful clown dance, free, in the gray parking lot in autumn.
There is an ugly boy who stands in the corner and watches the clown dance and weeps with the king. The clown's face touches him to his bone and chews on his heart. The ugly boy scrapes static tragedy off his shoulders and then he screams a lonely scream and he demands that the clown place her lips on his and take him away from the scars of the gray earth. But she does not pay him any mind, and like he never existed, she dances and the king weeps and the ugly boy remains in his corner.
They watch the clown dance in the parking lot by the church and they weep because she is so beautiful. The ugly boy will always remain in his small, black corner and he will watch the clown, always. And the king will never stand and wipe the tears from his eyes or brush his robe, he will always be self-serving. And the invisible orchestra will continue to pour notes from the sky that duel the lonely thoughts. And, the pretty clown will always dance like it was of no consequence, at all.
The notes fill the earth and drown all the souls and they die alike; equality is the absolute rule. But the beautiful dancing clown lives, still. She dances above the clouds. And summer arrives and all the despair is born into the wind again, and the clown will wait until the sky is gray and the orchestra plays again.