Trinity, The Mask
Beneath the dripping eaves of autumn’s park,
She sits: a gothic jester lost in the dark.
Rain beads on her gloves, cold upon her skin,
Yet the storm outside echoes quiet storms within.
Her face is painted laughter, pale and stark—
A mask of whimsy shielding every mark.
Black-and-white hat droops, heavy with regret;
She’s a shadowed figure most would soon forget.
Yellow-and-black stripes spiral down her knees,
A silent plea for someone’s eyes to see.
Her umbrella blooms against the gray despair,
A pop of hope held trembling in the air.
She watches puddles shimmer with the leaves—
Reflections swirling dreams the heart believes.
A clown in mourning, shy and out of place,
Longing for a friend who’ll look beyond the face.
In every crowd, she tumbles for applause,
Yet never sheds the ache beneath its cause.
Her jester’s soul, so careful and concealed,
Waits in the rain for kindness to be revealed.
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