At the edge of chaos
The jester dances
Expressing his reality
Through movement
He sings
And it echoes through the order
The sad songs
Of the agents of empathy
Their notes are felt
And then let go
But hardly appreciated
In this world of ego’s
Lyrics die on the tongue
Never reaching the masses
And the songs left never written
Are the saddest ones of them all.
-C.H.
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