A sad and bewildered man set upon a stone. His skin no longer seeing sun, just rotting flesh and bones. His wounds were deep when he lived here, he begged to be deceased. His injuries made him bitter, he cut others with his grief. His country made him happy, he was snatched from there when young. Taunted in the new land, where his kin had not come from. Oppression made him ugly, he hid behind a mask. His outward humour and frivolity became a lifelong farce. He ran away with the circus at the age of just thirteen, he trapezed and clowned for several years until he met his squeeze. He followed her home from the big top, she became pregnant with me. Our lives were full of travel and hurt, a young child yearned to flee. A few more siblings came along…hit the road til there were six. We settled in a little house, he detested being fixed. E’en when his heart was bad, he hit the road more often. He died whilst on the road, that’s how he reached the coffin. They found him in his truck, beneath a heavy load; this, the fate of many, whose lives are on the road. Our Father, yes we loved him, e’en though our lives were hard. We grew up with an iron fist, our souls perpetually scarred. Our Mother suffered greatly, she wore the brunt of pain. His anger borne from illness, it played its’ ugly game. Genetically we’re prone to it, hereditarily, we’re split.  Because of this, there is an irrational fear of becoming a lunatic…….

The mask can't hide it

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