The First Idiot

 

He was born full-formed, clad from first in cunning’s counterfeit.
No house would he know, no crypt could he claim,
Destined unto death and beyond
To chart uncoursed Neptune’s eternal glass.
Two gifts he was given:
A compass distrusting of direction,
A blade suspicious of slaughter.

So he sailed, starstiched from port-to-port,
Minotaur’s mirror for labyrinth’d kingdoms and crowns.
He discovered the word “wit”,
Struck down its rightful mistress.
He pilfered the caducean staff,
Resurrected within himself virtuous vice.
And when immortal sport spoke no more,
An island he built in self-image,
Stepping-stones disabused of picaresque intention.

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