Medieval self discovery

So once again i try to warm the long cold tea
And see if i am able to narrow down
Who is the one that i call me
 

For which one needs a powerful metaphore
And today i sense that medieval characters 
Are the ones who will open that door

I certainly wouldn't be the king
Far too much responsibility and not enough fun 
Comes with the golden ring and the heavy crown

And i could not be his council either 
I don't have enough wisdome for myself 
So me advising a king seems doubtful
 

So the honorable knight you might think perhaps 
For that i lack physical strenght discipline and my morals are a mess    
And of honor i have that much less
 

Then a man of faith 
A servent of the Lord - the priest
But the god himslef inside my mind is long deceased

No - i have always seen myslef as a hand of chaos
Someone who delights in mischief and pathos
A man of wit rather than blade who's been seduced by love of beauty not faith
 

A man fond of words
The reapeter of lines 
Yet  seemingly silent observer

Lover of drama and grand as well as sly gestures 
That is why i see myslef 
Among the bards and the jesters

The joker the clown the fool
Who whields no sword and bows to no cross
For his mind is his only tool

Voluntary self appointed laughingstock
Who very much enjoys the shock
Inflicted by his words to a common flock

The one who can pretend to be any one
Because in reality 
Deep in his heart he knows  he's no one

Just a blank page
Waiting to be filled
With laughter or rage

To him it makes a little difference 
Whatever pleases the audience
And there stubborn ignorance

Thanks to which they are unable to notice
That all the jokes only mask
His love induced psychosis

And all the poems are nothing but a help crys
Which he will write until the day 
He finally dies