Trapeses strung on Shakespare lines;
vivid like the richest wines.
The arts unite and intertwine
in stunts of cruel dimensions.
Trembling hands in steady hold,
tears behind a mask so bold.
Go for silver, go for gold;
the thirty piece temptation.

Hazard games in clairvoyants’ house,
a faceless crowd he can’t arouse.
-Another jester, another Faust
or another fallen angel?
Unimpressed, the shroud of frost
between him and his viewing host
blurres his polished contraposte
to an unknown, misplaced stranger.

“A twist and spin performed so well
from a drape-framed prison-cell
a droplet from an empty well
to myriads of eyes.
A face so wet with silver tears
behind the smiling mask he wears,
like gems behind a dragon’s lair,
drop diamonds where he cries.”

Irae, the jester of the court,
the one and only of the sort,
knows his tricks are running short,
and whispers; “come what may”;
All comes down to his final jest,
the only unseen joke that’s left;
his very own zoolock-life-theft,
and thus then, dies Irae.