Jubilation rings to the sound of its own drum
while glistening on its vibrant accolades
the fool prances on a pile of bones
with a rhythmic crunch.

The dilapidated ideas crumble off old hegemonies
as he dances slack-jawed whimsy to a world collapsing
behind his eyes.

His gaze is an arid wasteland
where the only sound is the dusty wind
and the only smell is that of gray clay.

His dry ****** lips are as brittle as crackling paint
that decay and abandon have flecked off with a breeze.

And his dullard smile exposes sharp teeth...
                                                        the only bit of clean left in him.

when you see him...
                             this vacant thing...
your wet tears remind you of your own existence
in comparison to this misery
slumping by.

The glorious death he witnesses is his to bear.
What you cannot bear to witness
is but the side effect of his metamorphosis:

                         A sorry
                         and temporary state
                         of depravity
                         that lingers on your tongue
                         and holds you down
                         in your lofty leisure.

I would not trade a crooked nail to experience this man's perturbation.
Alas,
I know life has a funny way of whispering mysteries yet to come.