Lo there he strides, the boy who thinks himself a man.
Hero they call him.
He is no friend of mine.
He wears his heart on his left sleeve,
While flaunting his power on the other.
No wonder the boy is in possession of such an arrogant handshake.
But these qualities are mere nuisances, not enough to push me over the precipice of irritation ~
And into the ravine of contempt.
Perhaps it is his naive capacity for joy,
The ignorance characteristic of our protagonist.
He probably dictates his own narrative.
More likely, my contempt stems in that he paints me the villain,
Or even the Fool.
Well, I refuse to be his jester.
Who am I? If I had a name I might offer it to you.
Then again I might not.
I am the lesson on this journey,
Blatantly ignored.
My road leads off the beaten trail.
I am the one,
the old, fragile man forgot,
When he told the tale,
Of his youth.


About Fredrik Kayser

Everything is connected.
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