A Fool's Parade

A Fool's Parade

Poets are innocent fools.
Feeling more though reality forbids,
We cling onto what may never be —
Chasing the lie of a merciful end.

Poets are innocent fools.
Hiding behind the pages we bleed,
Shielding our aches in rhyme and metaphor —
With a hunger the world cannot feed.
Longing to be seen
Beyond our masquerade.

Poets are innocent fools.
Knowing our words go unheard,
Yet still hoping — believing —

That somewhere in the darkness,
words will echo to those who listen.