And those gathered asked many questions
thinking that as he was a poet
he would surely give them comfort
He ignored them until at length
‘Tell us poet
are words not the essence of all things
known and unknown?’
Fearlessly Poetry’s Idiot
turned to face the crowd
Cheered they asked
“Are words not the means by which we may control everything?
If we know the true words
then our power is without limit.”
The smile of a ghost played across his features
His voice deep and strong said
“You seek to control what you don’t understand.
A recipe for disaster. . .”
“Words are but a poor currency
A trifling means of representing something substantial.
Show me a dollar. . .”
“These are pictures of men that no longer exist
Not real living men.
This. . .”
He pulled a dollar from one
poked two holes in it
and placed it over the face of its owner so that the bill was a mask
“This is the problem.
You no longer see the world as it is
You see the world through the paper currency of your words.”
“Better that words had never been employed
for this habit of using words
has made you all lazy.”
And he was never seen again