0. The Fool

The Fool dances, his arms swing to and fro to the click clack of the cogs and the whistles of steam. He throws his body around like his legs cannot bare his weight. His limbs, like ribbons on the breeze, flop around without care.

Should he hit his fellows, he laughs.

“’Tis, but the madness,” he says.

A slap to a face. A punch to the chest. “’Tis but the madness, and nothing more”

His legs sweep like a scythe, tripping the wise and the proud. The brave and the coward alike fall at his feet.

“None shall stand, the madness demands, all will falter and fall. ’Tis but the madness, and nothing more.”

From hall to street to hill to stream, the Fool makes his march a mockery of all. He moves like the wind. He hits like a storm. He laughs. He cries. He calls out in rage.

His words are hot as a desert day, yet cold as frost in winter. Fear, laughter, pain, and joy echo from his lips like prisoners escaping their bonds. They frenetically race down the track of his screed, jockeying for a place in the lead. Neck and neck, they thunder down the thoroughfare, giving insult and injury to each the same. None is safe from the jabs and insults. Nothing sacred, nothing saved.

“’Tis, but the madness,” says the Fool, “And nothing more.”

Armies and schools, the wise and the fools all fall down before his hideous gaze. His anger like steel, while with laughter he reels, as he lures the children into the fields.

“Truth is a lie, the lie is truth,” the Fool laughs and sings, “You ask the why, but I mock the proof. ’Tis, but the madness, and nothing more.”

Like a lion’s roar with mock gold mane, the Fool decries all work as vain. Vanity is the all in all. Beware the teeth hidden with his maul. He jests to cover the world in shadow, and blind us all to what is real. Confusion covers the halls of power. Pain is the only thing they feel, when seduced by the liar whose song sounds so sweet.

Beware the Fool, whose eye on self hides the world with his lies. He dances the spiral to raise the hells, but distracts the blind with his tingling bells. The world risks collapse so long as he cries, “‘Tis the madness, and nothing more.”