The Fool

To fall prey within its clutches is to shatter,

To piece oneself together

Is to be broken,

A quantified illusion,

The individual pieces

Leave different perceptions,

Does one not feel the edges?

The guilt in this deception?

Will it be too late to realize?

Some palms grip the shard proudly

Some hearts hold it dearly

The fool says,

 

"Their feelings, I am not to regard,

  I do not hold so dear, as I am able to discard,

  It is my tool, used to win the game I play,"

 

Once the cut is made, the blood does not stain;

It covers in a warm tint,

However, this warmth shows the true image, faint, but still visible,

The tainted soul reveals its dark nature, 

In its lust for warmth,

It feeds, unable to resist

And frivolous in pursuit

It is hungry for victims,

Soon enough, it has begun courting seduction of the next cut,

 

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed