In what the others stars avoid, in their still gaze upon the world. That half of life they see, through inky ether, and the resting heads below. That bit of light, the sparkle and glow, and laughter from the one I was born under.
The Star of Irony. As much as I walk away from it’s light, it remains, casting deep shadows before me. As much as I run, the darker the paths get, until my feet bring me into a lightless shore of my Thule. That if I am king, it is of here. That if I am a fool, it is then in this court.
In vain. In comedy. In some design of an eternal canvas.
Irony does not realize though, it’s one flaw. For in order to be the very symbol of all that is wryly contrary, it too must be so. One day it will know these footsteps I follow.
In that one day, and I’m free.