I wear the mask of a manic harlequin to hide the tears of a poet;
If you look carefully at my pictures, you’d find me hiding in the palette;

Let me tell you of a king that is almost human without his posse of testicle-licking parrots;
On a good day, he is a drunken mess of a man leading a ragtag team of dim-witted, in-bred retards;
Sometimes there is a hint of sober lucidity but actions speak louder than words;
I’ve sat in silence beside this notoriously foolish king as he sings his self-destructive ballads;
Even his tears seem almost real when untouched by an ego that is dangerously bloated;
The jester child watches in silence as he meticulously engineers the fall, with beer and whore in hand;
It is in his actions that the jester child finds ambiguity hidden in carelessly crafted lies;
And the empire the size of pea will fall under a sovereign lord who would torch the castle walls at the behest of his brightly painted concubines.

The beast was here all along…

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