Tears of a clown

Sometimes golden,sometimes silvery,just as  melting glass,pure in its form and composition.
When  lights go out,no one sees dripping blood on both cheeks,for the pain becomes the fire which even water would not consume and the price of loneliness is a jettisonned tree drained of life in the middle of the desert where colours are useless and inexistant for the red sun sets its beams and everything is unified in reddish stains of memories which abound as we approach death's embrace which would coincide with that emptiness we sometimes feel.