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The Dance Of Fools

Updated on May 7, 2017

The Dance Of Fools

O Human Soul!

What bondage could it be

That would the blinders of thy heart

Pull into Death’s great sea?

The moth’s burnt wings about the flame,

Peer Pleasure’s curiosity called out thy name,

And succored by the breath of fools,

Thy ship set sail upon a sea

So deeply filled with bones and ashes

Of they who saw the flame

Which now appears to thee.

“Let go,” cry they, “and dance with us.”

Thus to their folly go,

For the dance they do

Is the dance of fools,

Whose tune the fool doth hear.

I look at you and sorrow to

The power of Death’s song.

I see its hold

Upon thy soul,

No word from me doth break it.

For in thy maddening rush

To join the moths

Who flutter into death,

Thou see’st me retreat to safety from the flame.

And as thy tender youthful wings

Become the blackened, ashen things,

Heaped before the altar of the flame,

The cry goes up, thy voice is heard,

“T’is thee, me thought,

Who danced the dance of fools!”


August 3, 1977 11:49 p.m.

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    • Hanavee profile image
      Author

      Brian Gray 5 months ago from Pennsylvania

      Dora Isaac Weithers,

      Thank you for reading and commenting. I remember when I wrote this years ago, I was dismayed at the number of narcissistic people who spent years going to nightclubs looking for Mr. or Miss Right, and each night, they would go back looking for a replacement. Love was a cheap word, meaningless, temporary, and it seemed there were so many people who would say anything to get a cheap thrill, but they were gone as quickly as that cheap thrill. Commitment was a word they threw around, but never kept. These were the same people going back to those nightclubs twenty years later, still looking for "love." It is a sad life when someone does not value another human being enough to welcome a lasting and fruitful relationship with them.

      Brian

    • MsDora profile image

      Dora Isaac Weithers 5 months ago from The Caribbean

      "Succored by the breath of fools,"most likely, the result of choice. At the very end, confused thinking is obvious. Beautifully written about a not- at-all beautiful attitude.