The Fool
No matter the words you speak, the doubts you seek, or the lies he preached. She deserved love. When he wasn't there for the day, he wonders why she couldn't blow it off the same way he blew it away. He wonders how she could hold in her hands every prayer he's ever sent, while foolishly pondering every reason she had to resent. He dies over the pain he was once casting, yet only took off the mask when she stopped asking. He looks at the mushroom cloud and asks why, yet could never address what made her cry. The same sky they're under was so eternally beautiful when she was there, and yet, remains that way when she flew away. Cursing her, haunting him only more with the beauty of it still there without her under it. No sky will ever answer his questions, nor hold blame, for the reasons remain the same. The rain still came when he never thought he could get so cold and wet, yet he watched the clouds come in from a distance only to regret. He stays in the rain and scribbles his feelings away, only to watch the ink he meticulously writes fade away. The fool pulls out another piece of paper. And another, and another... only pondering why the ink couldn't stop bleeding away. Instead of the beautiful, sheltering tree that was so close, he chose shelter in decay. He chose the agony he sank in before, only to blame the paper for melting through his fingertips. He watches the rain destroy his life's work, as he would do anything but *work*. And as that same fool watches the sun come out, he confirms his pain to it with screams and cries only he now can hear. He looks to the tree, as he finally acknowledges the space that was once safe. But not only does he wonder why it couldn't dry him off, but why he is now so wet. So miserable. So broken. And as his skin melts away, he looks only to the rain, rather than a way. Thus, he pulls out his last sheet of paper, only to write so bitterly of his mistakes. And as he now writes to account for his failed endeavors, the paper crumbles. He believes to know an answer, yet ironically writes on the paper that was once dry. Livid and soaked, he carries his wet clothes where he goes. They stayed on his back until he was finally rid of them. Naked, he dries off and now lies under that same sky he once cursed at so loudly. He looks at the tree only after the rain came... And with that pain he carries forward, naked but no longer in vain. It took until he lost the very clothes that once kept him so warm to realize that it was him, not the clothes, that turned the once beautiful rain into horror. He continues his journey rid of his work and guilt, for he knows it must be him to change now. No matter if he was in pain, it was him and not the rain. Even though he wishes he never came to that place, he did. Even though it shouldn't have rained, it did. And even with access to immediate shelter, he continued to write in the rain. It was only till the cease of rain that he realized the weight his clothes now hold. He dries his clothes, picks up the pieces of paper, and carries on. The pieces of paper lie in his once soaked pocket, only to remind him of the horrors he turned that beautiful day into. Those broken pieces of paper are illegible and worthless to the naked eye, but even he knows he must keep them. To you, nothing more than tarnished paper. To him, the rest of his life. He was foolish, yet, without them he only remains as..
The Fool
