Joker of the Crag

The Jest of the West rounds in on a time
But his time does not allow to share the same time as the ruler's or the peasant's
It is his own time, his alone

He comes from the West, from the Land of Earthy Spears
From the Land of Everything is Ruin and Dust
Leaving trails of sorts in his wake
If you can call the dirty broken pieces of a heart a trail

To the grass, his horse, his guide, gallops upon
Happier now in the sun

Escarpment on top of escarpment they triumphed
and his guide was worn and whining
Until the Jest found the grass

The ruler saw the Jest of the West
And greeted him open armed
Except friendly, not friendly fire, but with a man's arms open and warm

I stared at the Jest of the West, in awe of his accomplishments
But he wasn't fooling me
This man, this Jest
This Jest of the West

Wasn't as noble as he seemed
He led on with darned red paint on his face
But was it blood?
Was it part of the trail?

This Jest of the West came to me as no hero
He rode on in welcome, by my standing
Crowd cheering
Not noticing any one but the mass

But I saw him
My Jest of the West
Leaving a trail of that familiar broken heart

I tried picking up the pieces