dolorous interludes.

For the Queen and her Jester.

There was a certain magnified beauty as old lovers met- perhaps it was the faint glimmer in her eyes when she looked at him(if she dared look him in the eye to begin with), or perhaps it was in the slightness of his every gesture that was coated with a sweet tenderness. Or perhaps, it was the way they each brought up little anecdotes from their time that has long passed, without realising that nostalgia had stirred each their hearts. There was little the bystander could do but to watch, and the motions went on in the midst of crowds pretending not to notice (or maybe they haven’t indeed the eye for such details), like a masquerade affair that neither took heed- in their little corner, the Queen sat at her royal armchair and the jester kneeled by her side, rousing her laughter to no end. She, without a doubt, missed his little antics, and their mysterious attraction that surpassed all ordinary. And aye, while I’m at this, I might too mention that the jester was like no other- his favourite colours were scarcely purple and yellow, and his charm lay beyond that of commonfolk amusement; he had the depth of a scholar, a mind like Shakespeare, and a hand like Van Gogh. He was indeed, quite the perfect jester.

All hail the queen, as her grand night came to a close: parting was sweet sorrow, but oh their affections were far from hollow; hardly they would resist I am fairly certain, an old flame ignited come tomorrow.

posted by voyeur @ 3/06/2005 09:40:00 PM