Quick strokes across the keyboard with grace and form his time has come again,
another late night binge on instruction and construction of worlds that only the great can comprehend.
A list of numbers and symbols mark his playing field; his weapon a cursor, flying majestically from line to tab to window to icon,
God in his own right creating motion and life out of nothing but the tips of his fingers.
He breathes in his work, his mind diluted with the brain of another.
A desk is all that separates him from this life and a connection to endless lines and strands of formations that create our technological landscape.
Yet he will own these monstrosities as he once owned himself, breaking into new ground night by night slaying the complexities changing and manipulating them to work with his rules.
Driven by passion, fuelled by a rectangular box filled with spices, clothed by well his pyjamas really.
He has conquered yet another obstacle and is still hungry.
Perusing his chatrooms his brain trying to produce a sentence that will depict the insight that he has gained.
Opens the window places his hands once more on the keyboard and types…..
Let it lay beneath the floorboards,
Looking up at us, spying lying creatures that scratch the surface
yet they never break free; trapped in their own cacophony of angst.
He stands smiling from across the room with a crimson tie and black suit of a fabric foreign to even
Merchants selling love in a bottle to children dreaming of something more than realism.
He laughs blood dripping from his left eye because he knows wrong from right,
‘been there done that’ dribbling ‘now you do for me’ removing his hat revealing
A lovers embrace that is too late to save them from the engulfing flames
Crimson fire flittering throughout the house that Jane built, floor now broken sets them free while locking the others forever in rapturous heat.
Market stalls closing for the day lowering prices to rock bottom, selling their stock as they cannot their souls.
Still Giggling the man in crimson sits down lights up, deep breaths follow like those who escaped
instruments shared between them, never to be locked again.
Freedom has been granted at a price.
Here they lay beneath the floorboards,
blank eyes, broken bones, charred skin nearly forgotten.
He sits down and drinks red wine tinged with ash.
The Man in Crimson laughs.
They laughed and smiled and even shed a tear
As he made his jaunty way
The love he felt so pure, but always taken away
Like butterflies to flowers, and maggots to flesh
He would return to play them, be happy and gay
The job was done quite rightly but then to his dismay
The Jester would return home
A bleeding smile of teeth, to laugh at himself this time;
To see what lay beneath
Each breath feels like a hurricane tearing him apart
The Jester is alone, a break it is today?