Clown.

Cry me a river of infidels

Filled with my 'I knows'

Hardly my 'I did'

Tell me to sit by it, watch the sun hit 

The heavens accept the gloomy purple

Brighten the skies

Bless the hearts

Ripen the fruits

Gladden the buds

Find me the sore

The source of the slippery pus that has littered the floor

Something in me wants to stare at the picture

Of the child dead on the floor

Know, of the river made of blood.