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April (And Her Fool)

Poetry By: November
Romance



I've never been more proud of a piece of 'work' than with this, by far and a way my best work to date & the culmination of months' work. It's only presented in stanzas to make it easier to read. I have a theory if people come on here and see one block of text they click away ...


Submitted:Oct 11, 2010    Reads: 65    Comments: 2    Likes: 1   


April

Conceived on April 1st and April's fool is all he'd be,
an April fool describes him absolutely perfectly.
Preposterous - his given name - forever chased fool's gold,
deep down his heart was young but all along his bones grew old.

He lived his life in black and white, until on frabjous day,
colour spilled into his life to paint away the grey.
He saw her there, a beauty that could never be outdone,
'neath big blue skies her starlit eyes shone brighter than the sun.

So gulping down his nerves he brushed her by her elbow joint,
he asked and learned her name was April (exclamation-point!)
He heard a thousand things that April probably never meant,
he must've misread every signal that she never sent.

Now wrapped around her finger like a noose around his neck,
how soon his courtship ran aground, against the rocks it wrecked.
She called herself his friend but never once would April call,
she left him high and dry, perfecting staring at the wall.

But one day he would pack his bags and walk right out the door,
he said goodbye to not one soul, he cared for them no more.
He moved away into a house built deep inside his head,
a place where conversation was much easier, he said.

Top of the world, upon his throne, the king of Foolishville
would feel untouchable, at least you see, that was until
he learned to touch himself but this would soon cause him distress,
alone inside his head he had no place he could confess.

"A man alone can do no wrong," at least that's what they say,
but all alone a man can't hear the things so said by 'they,'
and so consumed by guilt Preposterous would load a gun,
he counted down from ten to six, then five, four, three, two, one.

But bullets aren't so handy when you live inside your head,
young hearts live on long after those old bones of yours are dead.
So now each night he prays though he's not sure he still believes,
he prays he won't wake up and that his torture is relieved.

But fate's kicked in a little late and God forgot to care,
alas our fool can't catch a wink, now how is that for fair?
So sleepless, friendless, hopeless - and preposterous, of course -
our foolish friend has filled his flask with bitter, cheap remorse.

It feels as though he's living life in someone else's dream,
I guess he'll never know that thought is truer than it seems.
You'll never let him end it all the way his heart had planned,
he's stuck forever, trapped inside his private Neverland.





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