Aris Williams

The Little Jester And The Butterfly - Poem by Aris Williams

A little jester sat by a lake,
Staring back at his reflection,
Looking at the colors plastered on his face,

Colors strewn through his clothes,
Making himself a spectacle
The only interesting element of his life,

Sadness, happiness, no emotion,
Feeling numb and useless,
His bland life passing by in the navy waters,

On his rock, his own castle,
remembering the faces,
All the nobles laughing at his silly acts,

Hatred consumes his every move,
Hugging his knees to his chest,
Crying at the useless item that is himself,

A rustling breaks his depressing thoughts,
His soft bells jingling as he turned,
To see the nuisance that has come to torture him,

Instead of a terrible antagonizer,
A butterfly entered,
Fluttering over to the saddened jester,

'Who has come to laugh at my sorrow? '
The jester laughed a tortured cackle,
'A butterfly? Have all sunk so low as to mock me? '

'Some, but not all, ' the butterfly called,
The jester laughed again,
'And what should I call this soul? ' Questioned he,

'Hope, ' Said the colorful butterfly,
Landing on the jester's outstretched hand,
Making the jester feel woe and anguish,

'Hope, were you sent by others,
To secretly mock me,
In my distraught state of sorrow? '

'No, ' answered Hope, colors glowing on it's back,
'You must not feel lonesome,
Others have always been there for you, '

'Hope, why do you care?
My soul is in mine own hands, '
'Your darkened soul needs light, ' Hope advised,

For a fleeting moment, in a heartbeat,
The jester felt.....happy,
As the moment was crushed by memories of the nobles,

'Light will guide you home, ' Uttered Hope,
'But darkness will lead the way, ' The jester muttered,
And the jester set his mind back to dysphoria,

Crushing the butterfly in his hand,
The golden blood oozing through his fingers,
Letting the little jester be alone once more,

Sitting on his castle by himself,
The jester sinks back into depression,
Creating a cycle of remorse and grief,

A soft item rested in his hand,
Before the jester drowned in melancholy,
He opened his callused hand to reveal....,

A piece of paper Hope left behind,
Stating the simple word, PUTO,
Filling the little jester's heart with happiness,

He felt as though to keep on living,
To grow out of his doomed state,
All because... of a little butterfly named Hope.

Poet's Notes about The Poem

Ok, this was not edited very well, so I am a little nervous on how this turned out. Putos means believe in Latin if you are wondering. I also tried a new approach of style, no rhyming. I hate not rhyming. I would LOVE critique on this please! Also there is a very obvious under-laying tone of bullying in it.

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, June 13, 2013

Poem Edited: Friday, June 14, 2013

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