And I’ll swear by forty swords
If a sword is what will appease you
“SWORDS!” I’ll shout with mock obscenity, “Oh, swords!”
And you’ll wordlessly curse me through pinched eyes
And you’ll inform me that I am not a jester
And that you are not my mother, nor my caretaker.
But I swear, (swords!)
I swear that my mother has never hatefully condemned me for making light of a situation
Never folded her face into contorted revolt at my weak attempts to mend a fractured conversation.

And yet it seems as though I’ve prodded you with too many swords
You’ve plastered your negligible scars with bandages irrelevant–
Trivial, for though once wounds, they’ve since been healed.

Like a puppet master, like a ventriloquist
You’ve got me speaking in idioms

A foster home, I’ve adopted your character

And, doing so, determined your actions foolish
And you the fool and jester.