The Fool

No more the lonesome jester
Who casts not heart
But lip smiles.
No more the passion uncouth
For that wave has gone ashore.
Costly the follies have become.
What is there but that?

Surely something gleams
Amid the dust and broken glass.
Surely not.
In this realm, there is naught.
Naught to envy
But to pity.

The tattered bride
Brings twisted stems.
Strings of the fool
Tauten her lips.
From her soul
Ripped images
And love-spattered paper
Rain down.
The One of whom they speak.

The One who does not expect
Who does not need
Nourishment of the mother tree,
But who follows
The liquid path of the seasons.

Run.
Far away to the sanctuary.
The loss is a gain.
But for twilights
Unknown and countless,

Sit.
Rippling self reflection.
On moist grass,
On mossy stone.
To consider the piece gone amiss.
To wait.

To wait.