The Tripartite Soul

Let the Fool step upon the light,

Let the Psycho take the stage,

Let the Devil join the night,

In this final, ink-stained age.

If we speak of the boy he was:

He was innocent in his breath,

Is innocent by ancient laws,

And shall be innocent past death.

The hand that would not crush a fly

Still lingers in his mismatched eye.

If we speak of what came next:

He is passion wrapped in bone,

A killer driven by the text

Of a list he kept alone.

Compassion in a hunter’s heart,

A craftsman of the lethal art.

If we speak of the bitter end:

He is destruction, cold and vast,

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

A ghost on whom no gods depend,

The shadow that is feared at last.

Without the need for magic’s glow,

He is the silence you shall know.

He may be the Fool, in gentle prayer,

He may not be, for the world is bare.

He may be the Psycho, with a list to fill,

He may not be, for his heart is still.

He may be the Devil, at the airlock door,

But he does not show his face anymore.

A Fool’s journey is truly cruel,

Where the past is a branding iron;

A puppet for a narrator’s school,

A lamb for the prose of a liar.

Condemned to suffer in the black,

With no favorable path leading back.

May the Fool show his quiet presence,

May the Psycho rise from the clay,

May the Devil die in his essence,

As we speak of the same man today.