The Jester and Three

Born of the word

the youngest of three

In the sky I see burn

the words that he speaks

A crown of thorns

placed on this Jester’s head

And for ten long years

a life he tormented

Disappear to reappear

then disappear again

The seventh of his faces

mortally wounded

Yet again, from his ashes

he spirited from

The tales of his passing

and hymned his psalm

In the end of the wake

his lost children three

Looked to his face

as he started to leave

No repentance for his pride

no tears or embrace

Had brutally wounded

his ashy, new face

So with fleet foot he flew

Father frantically flee’d

Those born from his word

the babies three

No kindle to burn

they smoldered and plea’d

“Give the Jester his thorns

and please, leave us be”

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