When does comedy 
become madness, 
the comic more tragic 
than humorous?  

I always feared that one day 
the laughs would simply end - 
each of my lines  
falling to earth, 

limp, hollow, flat,  
effectively dead. 
I have been cursed  
to always see the chuckle  

at the darkest misfortune, 
the joke on the lip 
of the grave. A clown 
in my young school years, 

I never grew to eschew 
the pratfall, the easy joke, 
the crowd’s rowdy guffaw. 
St.  Maturinus, you who cast 

out demons, the patron saint  
of centuries of jesters,  
either bring back 
my edge, my wit,  

the surrounding smiles, 
the resounding laughs 
or end it all, now,   
in serious, somber silence.