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No Stories For April

You can find a downloadable version of this poem here: (.PDF)





Dance, clown of the King.

You jester wrought in chains of spite and pain.

Let he who brought forth such a misery upon the court,

Be thrown off the tallest tower,

Off the highest peak,

Into the depths.

Why are you loathe to retort?

The iron upon your neck, cause of swelling and hate.

Fool through thorough woes, tears your only food for thought.

Yet thou persist.

Living. Why?

Such sunlight beaming its blessed gift upon thine hide.

Shaking in the rich velvet and silk,

In the disease-consumed leather bag,

Huddling feet close together, arms snap begging for the sun,

It’s bright here, near the throne. It’s warm here, near the throne.

Come out from the shadow,

Dance and tell us stories,

Stories of brave knights and of voluptuous maidens with darkened hair,

Of towers of steel and men wearing armour beneath their flesh,

Of metal dragons spitting fire and death,

Of peasants becoming Kings.

In defiance of God.

Come forward thee coward,

And tell us these stories,

Tell us these stories and dance for us,

For April she shortly wains.


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What Doth the Sun Say? 
February 21

Sleep 
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