In No Sense

Emancipation of Hero, redemption of Fool.

Painting by Quinten Metsys, Public Domain

Every hero will someday stumble upon a humble truth:
When few will tell him, he matters
And of those, very few he will believe
Because it's in a hero's nature
to shield himself in cloaks and daggers, 
while holding himself in poor favour. 

So, he will listen to the advice 
of those whose lives he doesn't want, 
in a twisted logic to belong
To hope his critics might turn around, 
say, 'you’re right, I’m wrong'. 

Tired 
he will receive,
a truth far deeper than belief,
that, who he is, 
is not what he's overcome. 
That though everyone's worth their weight in respect, 
they can only show him what he's not. 
Even though their lessons are worth learning,
no teacher has walked his path. 

Foolish he may appear, if he steers clear 
of the erudite, 
who know far too much to feel
of life. 
He may be wary, perhaps naively, 
of repurposed cognition 
parroting originality,
to draw recognition.

But, innocent old cock frets no more over cock-ups, 
remaking his unmasked experience. 
Even the mirrors crack when his true self grins.
Peeling leather to reveal blistered skin. 
Like moulting bubble wrap,
pressure-filled sores go pop-pop. 
Ah, painful succour,
turn disease into scars of honour. 

Stark naked, in icy redemption, 
he swings his wrinkled pecker. 
Frolicks in puddles, knees buckling, 
tripping over sagging ball sacks.
Bursts open, innards splaying,
congeals into barren cracks.
Only old bones remain
as evidence of the hero's climax.

His storied cycle, 
an inglorious evolution.
only a few attempt to escape.
Into the fool's transformation
From a hero's damnation, 
to a luxurious sting in the tale.