By F Lalthanliana ( t.f. )
In a world where thoughts can shape the sky,
Three figures live, and yet they die
The Pilgrim, The Jester, and The Empty King,
Each searching for a different thing.
The Pilgrim, wrapped in robes of old,
Walks a path both brave and bold.
He gathers stones along the way,
Believing purpose lights the day.
"Each step I take, each choice I make,
Carves meaning from this world opaque."
Yet as he holds the stones, they fall
Their weight was never there at all.
Behind him skips the Laughing Jester,
In crooked steps that seem to fester.
With every turn, he spins and reels,
Mocking the Pilgrim’s endless zeal.
“Why chase a dream that fades like smoke?
The truth,” he grins, “is just a joke.”
His laugh is loud, but hides a tear
For even jokes can breed a fear
What if, beneath the dance and jest,
There lies a silence like the rest?
And then upon a throne of stone,
The Empty King sits all alone.
He neither walks, nor laughs, nor cries,
For in his heart, all meaning dies.
“The world,” he says, “is hollow still
No purpose drives, no fate, no will.
The throne I hold is made of air,
And in the end, there’s nothing there.”
But even in his empty reign,
He feels the weight of silent pain.
For to believe in naught at all,
Is still a belief, though built to fall.
The Pilgrim walks, the Jester twirls,
The King just watches as it unfurls.
Each cling to a truth, but not for long,
Their voices braid a fractured song.
And though the path may twist and wind,
The Pilgrim walks, no end in mind.
Though laughter fades into the night,
The Jester spins, defying fright.
And though the King sees through the veil,
His empty heart still fears to fail.
Three faces, one, they all entwine,
In search of something they can't find.
For life’s a mirror, cracked and split,
Each truth a shard, each lie a bit.
And as they walk, they fade away,
Their steps the echo of the day.
The Pilgrim, the Jester, and the King
All right, all wrong, all wandering.
By F Lalthanliana ( t.f. )
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