With broken fingers I weave life's tapestry
I am in darkness, with no control at to how the cards will fall
I just manage the deck
A morose funk hangs over me
It comes, and it goes like the professional harlot
A weaker man would rip out his hair from its root
While running to seek guidance from the parson

"Send in the clowns" they said
By all means, try it
But do be prepared for the mass of blood and red noses
For I am in no mood for such twisted capers

Like the spring hare I shall run and run and run
Knowing the second I stop, if only to catch breath
It would all be over
I then become the prey

Even the man, built from clay with the strength of seven
Is of little consequence as soon as the carpet of love
Is ripped from beneath his feet

A stench, as bad as death, fills the air
As the desperate Lothario enters the shed
With him, he brings all the self-assured arrogance of the hangman
Today he is safe
Tomorrow he is over
Alone in my bed, I revisit the day's occurrences
Making all the necessary alterations
An apology is weak
A regret is wretched

A figure appears on the horizon
As it is approaching, it begins to take shape
A man
I notice his head looks towards his feet
As if unable to meet my gaze
He looks familiar
You there!
Who by shame brings this bad news?
Oh
It is you
The hangman
Do come in