The Fool

Rings of gold floating away from his stoup

Where brass halos of white jiggle and rise

Like a Sun thick with fatness and stockings,

Spread unto infinity from his wooden pipe…

— Four holes line the cress — The Fool

Dances and skips on the echoes of children

Trapped in cobble jars of ancient solitude

That cover the air’s motion in passing sound.

Alastor and Shatr, an illumination of it’s form

Dance in the voices of every roaring storm,

In motion with the colours voices, that staph

Suckles the fruits of our throat — then we laugh!…

Children follow oblivion with no morality

Tranced to the harmony of his thoughts,

Bloated with mist, the blind man’s clarity;

With hollow eyes, The Fool reflects all courts!…

A lyre of tendons and veins withholds eternity;

He grasps golden eggs of mankind’s paternity

Reposing in maternal natures of our destiny,

The melodies we so blindly follow for infinity.

Rings of gold floating away from his stoup

Where brass halos of white jiggle and rise

Like a Sun thick with fatness and stockings,

Spread unto Liberty from his wooden pipe…

I write with typicality, my creativity has been sucked out of whatever it is is trying to grow — great-another day of this, so used to this — when will it end — when will I begin?