He speaks before the silence finds its feet,
a fool who fears the quiet more than scorn.
Each room receives his well-rehearsed retreat —
the motley worn to hide that he is torn.
"A jest, a jest!" — but wherefore all this mirth?
The wise fool knows the weight behind his grin.
Our jester plays for lighter fare on earth,
yet cannot stop to let the stillness in.
We laugh. 'Tis easier to play along
than ask what hounds him into ceaseless noise.
A welcome physic when the days grow long,
but sweetmeats cloy when that is all one enjoys.
Methinks he doth protest too much, too fast,
a cap and bells to drown the deeper ache.
The stage stays lit. The audience has passed.
He japes to empty chairs for habit's sake.
What dreams disturb a man who cannot rest?
What wound requires such gaudy, loud disguise?
The mouth runs on. The eyes confess the rest:
a frightened boy behind the fool's bright eyes.
One day the court will empty, torches dimmed,
and still his tongue will rattle like a bell —
a player whose last act was never limned,
still talking, talking, with no one left to tell.