Grief of the paper jester.

The grief of the paper jester.

Forever I shall wonder what I had done, surely, I had not been abandoned, the one I love did love me. Not the word of a god could make me unmask my shame. Waiting day by day for the dead to walk again makes a man dead himself. To suffer the rains of love and to kiss the sugar lips while it poured, melting and locking me shut in a paper castle not let the corpse of love be buried in sanity but instead be my monster to walk again the unfortunate lightning of denial. So, I stood locked and bent in my paper castle who stood on against all gales of new promise, of clarity, of happiness for I had found comfort in the illness of the craft of love and words. To recreate the sugar lips to the tongue of the ear so that my voice my be free of the paper.

So, I wrote for her, songs and music and the written word in every form I did know. It was my hearts' profession for which it worked for free, to weave the words from the very yarn of my heart. When I asked for simple humanity, for anything other than be the love dog that awaiting the coming of its owner, she would paint me the working man who tied himself up in the workings of the world and herself as the awaiting. When I made a front for my terms of life, she would demand my heart be melded to fit perfectly with her wishes, by then I would not be the man I was before, the man she wanted to love. And so, when I hid behind my paper fort, she would tear down every brick of my castle to leave only the foundations of truth and return me to a previous state. The jester in our royal court of misery.

The jester is the Queen's favourite, tolerated by the King and all the princes. Paid a wage of bread and hope, to work for the humour of the royal court of paper who I had knowledge of ruling in life before but gone. When it was me in that throne perhaps a noble jester of power and benevolence would make a noble kingdom, if I did not eat so much of the sugar then my paper throne would never have folded under my greed. If I had not spent time on the pleasure of an instant but instead on thatching against myself then the rain of life would never have ruined my paper castle and melted my sugar love to lock me to the floor of the court the very lowest of all. I could give all my wage of hope and bread to scream and the glutton in the throne when it was once mine. To make him run until all the fat of his greed was burnt away. I would kill every version of myself that did not give every fibre and every heart string that I had to weave the greatest most intricate yet simple, the most beautiful but most grounded, the most sturdy and yet most malleable tapestry of love I could, not to be displayed but simply to be used in reunion.

The clock cannot turn back, and I do not have enough threads of my mind left to craft my full tapestry for I have killed too many second thoughts to weave any more. Still, I earn my wage of bread and hope. My hope has long since become melted sugar too, locking the jester to his paper court to serve the paper queen, in humour told by misery. The red of my suit, the words I bleed long since an old fashion trend. The sugar queen still reigns, and I remain the paper jester under the spire of the dead paper castle disintegrating from the rain of truth. The sugar queen and her paper subjects melted to a nothingness. I am without a craft, without a home, without a heart, but the sugar queen still reigns beyond the grave. Without a kingdom I sit here, wrapped for any shred of warmth in my failed tapestry of love upon an empty throne that I once sung for, one that I would decorate with words.

It pours, it pours and pours, forevermore I lament the dry days when the paper castle stood dry with me as its king, then as its jester and now as its only memory trapped. Now the sugar queen is melted, the paper throne long rotted, and I the paper jester am rotten too. My essence in the soil, my kingdom is the dirt. the rain pours on and the soil grows rich with my rotten corpse, and soon life will sprout, a tree will grow, a mighty oak will grow, and in from its roots, my kingdom of dirt there will grow the red rose will petals crisp as paper and scent sweet as sugar, united in one memory and so the wind grows still, and so the rain stops and so the court of paper belongs to the rot.