Sunday, November 9, 2008
When the moon is perched on the tip of the raven's wing; a party crasher will come entertain us with parlour tricks and silly pranks but I swear to you now, what makes him such a riot is his wicked, wicked sense of humour.
He leaves no footprints; no sign to mark his passing except the trail of a billion shards of broken glass spiked with poison to cut the brain. A Prophet of the Thorn, he is the Prophet of Intentions.
Taking a bow before the audience; he claims to have wandered in because he got lost but I know better.... beware the Magic man for he is both kind and cruel.
He is a liar who strays not from the truth; for the best amongst the liars are the ones who stay closest to the truth. He is skilled in blurring the thin line that distinguishes one from the other; like the art of blending black and white into a million different shades of gray.
Notorious party crasher; trouble maker; heart-breaker at your service.
Magic Man, Magic Man who are you?
This ship is runned by a psychos on a cruise to nowhere. Its structure is crumbling under the scrutiny of the disturbed mind; the world looks upside down from where I stand and its swirling round and round in ribbons of rusty gold.
I asked the Jester to take the throne. Why? Because irritated geniuses are tricky, twisted funnymen. Witty dream-assasins on a perpetual psychopathic high. He snuck up when noone's looking and snatched the head off the King's heir, then ran off laughing before the blood turned cold.
In the book of Life, IV is the number of Kings and Emperors while Death is numbered XIII. Humble is the servant who serves his Lord but the King is not the Lord; and a Prophet bows before no King.
If the Jester played Death and played it well, then let him play the role of King and we'll see how will the Jester hold the number 4.
09 Prophet of Inquiring Minds
See when there is a gathering of this sort, there is bound to be drama and I for one dislike drama with a passion. All the bickering and pettiness makes my head ache; I just can't stand it.
I would cut off my ears and stab out my eyes if I thought that would help.. it wouldn't. In fact, let's just dismiss that idea outright as stupid and try something else.
The Beetle King gave me a map and told me to follow it; it will take me to someone who hated all that noise as much as I. So I took the map; locked all the Prophets in that softly-padded room for the criminally insane and went looking for the elusive hermit.
In one of the rooms marked IX, I found him. A little younger than I had expected, a little unconventional to be called a recluse; "What kind of hermit are you?" I demanded.
He stuck a lamp in my face and said to come closer so I may see better and I did.
He looked like me a if I was a man; he had the Glass City in a jar and it looked like Eden was burning. The Prophet of Inquiring Minds laughed; he said it was I who wanted to burn the city to the ground. The lamp shed light into the depths of my heart and that was what I saw.
What nonsense!!! I turned around and ran for he was crazier than the rest of them... but not before I spat a mouthful of expletives at him.
The jester weeps for the dearly departed; rivers of ink stains his cheeks as he ferries us home for we look upon his face with terror; his hedious mask strikes fear into our hearts.
Once upon a time, at the threshold of birth; I think I told him that I look forward to the day we'll meet again, old friend.. for we have walked this road many times before. Back then I looked upon his face and called him beautiful, his company gave me comfort for the impending journey into the unknown was more than I could bear.
Yet somehow along the way I must have forgotten my promise to him; I think I forgot my purpose for coming here.
Is death as painful as birth, I wonder? I cannot recall the day I was born into the world, nor the pain I felt nor the cutting of the cord... Could it be that I forgot what death means, like I forgot my reason for coming back?
And when I next look upon the face of Death; would I too, cringe in horror at his face that is made up of my own fear... or would I embrace an old friend who has come to accompany me on the long walk home?
To walk through coal on my own accord or be dragged kicking and screaming; where is dignity in death if there is no dignity in me? My prophets plague me with rambling thoughts of lunacy but I sense some riddled truth in it somewhere.