Does the sky match my mood?
Or does my mood match the sky?
To each, we are both mirrors,
Forever asking why.

Did the jester entertain you?
Did she make you chuckle for a while?
Now put her back into her box,
To wallow in her bile.


Leave her on the dusty shelf,
You've got your life to live,
You think she'll play with others,
But she's nothing left to give.


Her threadbare seams need stitching,
But your needle's far too blunt,
Laughing hard at clowns anew,
Into your past she'll shunt.