All you heroes are not much different
from me. Your victories taste no better.
Your songs will fade as soon, into
the night that falls upon us all.
Pain is as fleeting as joy, and death
even more pointless than life. If I
take up my sword, defy the heavens,
am I the better for it? Sooner
or later, we shuffle it all off,
and maybe we are happy or maybe
we just keep unhappiness
at bay until it doesn’t matter.
Laugh, my heroes — the jester dances
before us. In the end he will
draw near to whisper his name into
your ear. But you had guessed it already.
Stephen Brooke ©2013