Those who mask

And the jester knows not how he jests or if he jests.

He’s clad with shiny ideas – a fist full of data and facts, absolutely knowing what the world is

but aware of no thing.

Aware of nothing under his nose.

Not of the flea jumping across cement-bonded bricks.

Nothing of coffee tasting like tea.

Of a boxed garden that will not grow.

Of a sun whispering through clouds.

Of other ideas falling on deaf ears.

Of gum wiped from eyes.

Of angry dogs trapped in boring rooms.

If only he could stop the words at the very edges of his front teeth

and listen for a breath of wind through the trees.

Ditch the knowing costume and behold the minute before his imminent death.

Feel the dirt sliding down around his arms, the bugs lined up for millennia, awaiting his feast.

Only then would the jester rise with a thorny visor and a cup of herb-spiked wine.