A Gifts Repent

A mime is admired for skilled silence of an acting admission of imaginary jest

A clown a comical genius of all the style one would not imagine would irradiate from falling flat on their face

A tightrope walker deathly tempting on a line as suspended as the audiences breath as in daring rebellion he risks a death

I rage a temper in a fitful storm of furious words only muttered in civilised circles under whispered breath

For my skills reek of ill mood and drift into arms where comical and civil do die in flames of emblazoned anger and dryly dark jest

Such is me

Who better suits black and red

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