The Jester

The words retreat into a distant place

and I can’t find a single thing to say.

All poets must eventually face

the silence of a thoughtless, wordless day.

The bull is sleeping, quiet in his shed.

The peevish lover shrugs and folds his hand.

The great white shark stopped swimming and is dead.

My castles have all crumbled into sand.

Alone, the jester howls his madcap song

for he’s the part of me that will not sleep;

that carries on as though there’s nothing wrong,

blows raspberries at me when I want to weep.

I know he is the part of me that’s best

and yet today I wish he’d let me rest.