Is there anyone to listen? To tell when the fool gets it right or wrong?

Twisting double faces and false promises swirling around, lies filling the scenes.

Rooms full of liars, cheats, beggars and fools, all once called friends, lovers.

But when fools rush in, all others rush out, and again left alone in the room this fool sits and waits.

Sitting, writing, singing, crying, thinking about his foolish life.

The fool passes time, passes life, all the while the world passes the fool by.

Sitting alone, broken jesters mask in hand, the fool has no one to amuse, and no desire to laugh.

The fool has no folly to make him bright, and no desire to find it.

This world’s jester, joker of the king’s court, mockery of the minds high court.

The fool sits solitary in a cold room, once warm with the laughter of friends.

In jest, he lays himself on the floor, as if he were dead, and finds comfort in the cold.

Oh fool, how would it be that you came to be such a sad soul, no joy or folly to be had.

And I think to myself, for the fool is me, that the world has grown so cold.

And I try to fix my broken mask, my wounded soul, and find no solace in the company I once kept.

And as I walk in and the room clears, the thought rings clear in my head;