The Man Who Laughs

His face contorted, twisted, tortured mask,
As molded fast by those who took him young;
They cut and sliced and wrenched and set to task
Each sinew of his face till loose it hung,
Then tightened all the tidbits
Till ‘twas done.

For how else is a jester left to leer?
Too soon the natural face slips back to naught
But blank and vague expression, sorrow or fear,
And who would laugh at that depressing lot
When his is there for always,
Laughter caught?

So day by day the merry fool he plays,
While deep within a burning as of death
Confounds his mirth and blazing, ardent slays
His last remaining hope, desire for breath.
Man respires, aspires, expires…
Desires rest.

And so the weary laugher quits his stage—
A player like the feeble candle fraught
With end through metaphor in Macbeth’s rage—
Ignoring now what grins his grin has bought,
He walks to sink on water,
All he sought.