by Linda Straub
O’ what pain this life’s possessed
when joy has been its sole desire;
to laugh and linger in that state
where sadness stands unwelcome,
and enters, a foil to happiness.
A charlatan behind elation’s mask,
sorrow’s aim is to deceive us all
who dwell in harmony’s hermitage.
Too late the hour of recognition
after song and gleeful repartee;
too soon the discharge of graces
as melancholy ends its masquerade.
Unveiled, it seeks to swallow joy
in prelude to an unending cold.
Trickster © Linda Straub
Painting Without a Name , reading and music by David Michael Jackson