His suitcase is empty, the path is lonely
There’s no money to fill it, no tie to tie,
His face is painted-- ”what a freak!”
The trees grant him not an ounce of shade.
Chalices of blood and honey overflow,
His boots drip with pleasure and snares
Their whispers ripple--”hook, line, and sinker!”
The mists come forth and his wings take form.
He cannot see, yet he refuses to turn back
Until the bridge of land and sky separate,
And what he thinks to be an eternal heaven,
Slowly decays in the scleras of his eyes.
And so, The Magician became The Fool;
And the Fool the outcast Hermit,
Who drops his lantern and runs for comfort,
Shapeshifting into the classic working man.
His suitcase is full, the city is crowded,
Packed with money, a wealthy suit
The man’s heart is empty, wine can’t fill it
No one gives the man a second passing look.