Overgrown sweeping bat is he,
a haughty book picture,
Everybody’s Fool to look upon,
is to see a house without lighted windows,
cold cauldrons swirling empty.
Gliding aura of mystique, darkness, and power,
he savors this portrait of worldly display,
puts it on a shelf to awe and mesmerize,
forevermore a mask to those who seek him.
Solitaire is but a savage pleasure,
all actions thus riddled.
Clever snake known best by those who’re distant,
least of all by friends.
Prideful, powerful, and aloof,
his terrain lies a difficult bearer of airs and challenge.
Minds confuse and cloud the wearer,
those secrets most jealously guarded are those we love the most,
from the small boy who once cried in the corner as his parents fought,
grows a product of the past and bitter resentment.
Seriously misunderstood creature is he,
a seeming stranger to emotion.
Weak because he cannot outlive the past,
yet the strongest because he cares so much.
There is no one completely good or evil,
we all have a little of both.
The Prince of Fools is merely a reminder of our own flaws,
the mark of humanity we must bear.
Long suffering is he until his death,
when all his secrets lie unmasked.
Now we see the crying little boy anew,
a man weeping quietly in the dark with regrets.
The unparalleled bravery, past behind those cold
cauldrons broken, and understanding revealed.
There is nothing to fear in death,
for there is no heartache, catcalling, or jeering.
Everybody’s Fool finds his best friend here,
for he is at last bearer of the respect long due him.
He is no longer a stranger to his own person,
or those sacrifices made for his deepest cares.
Behind the pallid figure, face that was once such a blank wall,
there is now revelation, a man of strength, and contribution.
Thus as the shutters close for the last time on the light,
he dies peacefully, knowing that his work will not go unnoticed.
Little does he know what has crept unbidden out of the ashes,
and that for now, and ever more, he will now be seen, a hero.