The Soul of the Golden Jester
The soul of the golden jester flies,suspended in the air of a treacherous wind,
that ambushes overjoyed (like a garrulous phantom in disguise)
and across fertile pastures, bathed by silver dew,
forged once again in the heart of our most profound
and intimate remembrances, by the ancestral blacksmith of early mornings,
who passed by.
As the sun rises slowly, weighing heavily like a red-hot anvil,
it is subtly halted at the entrails of an ancient volcano that boils...
With shimmering golden melting lava, flowing powerfully,
throughout labyrinthine internal streams, where the sound of
a harsh hammer blows over pastel colors, dream-like thoughts.
Making a lavish but secret, muffled sound, while plotting the promises
that will shape our existence as the diurnal hours elapse.
And in the end, vanishing in a blurring dusk, that on this occasion had chosen to dress, capriciously, in an opulent satin night gown
full of brilliant yellow stars (like the ones worn by mortals,
at the inescapable fall into the precipice, located right below and amongst the end of times) within fragmented swift intervals,
of crimson, purple, and violet tides...
Shadowing our already short-sighted and tired eyes,
to give way towards a blackout nightfall, by surprise.
However... we have mercifully seen it repeatedly,
so many times.
Poetry by Golden Minotaur
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Written on 2025-08-26 at 10:39
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