Tears roll down the Jester's face,
Scintillating kaliedoscopically
As the finest cut diamond.
They are neither seen nor felt.
A smile crosses the Jester's lips
Inspired by the darkest humor,
Frozen by the tundra winds that blow
From the arctic depths of the soul.
Laughter bursts from the Jester's throat
Howling and gibbering with the mad fervor
Of one locked away from this world,
Into a world built on excrement.
The Jester wears a breechcoat, with diamonds
That gloom in despair, some stained
With the drying blood of a dove's heart,
The others, charred in the shadow of the raven's eye.
The Jester wears a foolscap, with bells
Shaped as shiny silver squinting skulls
That tinkle in the air as the breaking glass
Of the assassin at midnight.
The Jester wears a belt, with a bag
Filled with collected souls, some screaming in terror,
Stretching at the seams
In a vain attempt to avoid the foretold doom.
Tears roll down the Jester's face,
As hollow laughter escapes that rictus grin.
The Jester knows only the screeching agony
In fulfilling the grimmest of duties.