From Pages Of A Fool

The Narration:

A voice there remained so unsung
That it saddened to depth the day.
While marching men’s armors wrung,
He ate on a hill with wine and played.

The Marching Men:

The tapping of our feat is one,
You fool, you fool and your flute
Pray rot with your wine and bun.
It’s to our names folks sing and salute.

Our blades are fine and arrows sharp
Our strength is greater than of any beast
While with wine and bun you lark.
We shall march for an eternal feast.

We roar louder than any thunder
Come! Enmity with all its may.
With your wine and bun do wonder
Against us immortals what is your say?

The Fool:

I saw the men of song and salute.
I saw the men of eternal fest.
I saw men claiming immortality
I saw the men of souls unrest.
I saw them all lost, not won
I, therefore, play over my wine and bun.

“I have been a king.
I have been a slave.
Yet I know
Same taste of the grave.”

Upon Reasons Of No Questions And Answers

To see more than the depth of the day,
Its extended hand over the longings
So profound, yet they voice-timid and small
But brave enough to gather the length of
The morn, the noon, the even...while all
May succumb to the lost light; the brighter one;
To the light found, only enough to draw
Lines around the solid self’s, of mine and
The one's I have left long behind.

What it becomes to wear a reason
For a question untamed? What it
Becomes of reason that cannot
Conceive an answer.

A Passing Thought

Trace to me the losing words
Grasp them with a hint of pain.
Never together...never the same.
The falling be so cruel yet kind
It offers a lesson in nothingness, so
What is it to you that binds
Over the courteous fragments-low
Hung over the even sky
And the curtained mist and aimless rain.
Benevolence be so graced so rhymed
To sooth away the will of pain.
But has the dusk ever chased
Anything else but the dying sun
Or the dawn have been in play
For a chance to man to be the one.