Psycho Clown

Out there, where the asphalt bleeds into dust, he appears— a figure bent against the heat, face cracked wide in smeared joy.

Red nose, streaked cheeks, a mouth too red to trust. It’s not a smile— it’s a warning.

You tell yourself he’s just a man playing dress-up, but something in the stillness snaps. The air doesn’t move. His shadow doesn’t fall.

Your foot wavers on the pedal. Do you stop? Do you run? But he’s already there, hands gripping the edge of reason, eyes like smudged mirrors reflecting nothing you want to see.

The road stretches behind him, miles of silence, and yet he’s here, walking straight from nowhere, a joke too bitter to tell.

You don’t laugh. You don’t look away. And as the engine groans, you know one thing for certain— he’s going wherever you’re going.