The Logistics of Being Humored

(A Poetic Reflection in the Mirror of the Mind)

Within the halls where jesters preach,
the fools of reason find their speech;
They dance on graves of humbled grace,
and mock the truth they dare not face.
A grin too wide, a gaze too kind,
conceals the fracture in their mind;
They laugh until the silence screams,
and wake inside another’s dreams.

They wear their masks of saintly guise,
but shadows flicker in their eyes;
Their humor drips with venom’s art,
a blade disguised as counterpart.
They jest of virtue, sip on spite,
and feed on wrong to feel they’re right;
The mirror waits — its patience thin —
for beasts who smirk beneath their skin.

Each jest, each smirk, each hollow cheer,
draws guilt like moths to fire near;
They call it wit, they call it play,
but reason dies the more they say.
For words, once loosed, take spectral form,
and gather round in wicked swarm;
They hum the hymns of those betrayed,
and haunt the jesters unafraid.

“Laugh louder still,” the mirror cries,
“Your echo hides in others’ lies!”
Yet as they grin, the glass grows deep,
reflecting truths they cannot keep.
For every jest that struck the meek,
becomes the scar upon their cheek;
And every boast to prove their might,
dims softer souls that once burned bright.

Oh irony — that sweetest snare,
to catch the cruel in their own stare;
They call it humor, call it jest,
but poison wears a painted vest.
Each chuckle seeds a bitter bloom,
that thrives within their moral tomb;
And though they claim it’s all in fun,
the damage whispers, “You’re undone.”

Yet pity those with cleaner hearts,
who dodge the lash of spiteful arts;
For laughter’s war spares none who stand,
where cruelty commands the fearest land.
But bless the few whose minds still burn,
with conscience keen and eyes that learn;
They walk through jest with tempered grace,
and never lose their human face.

For being humored is no feat,
when every smile hides deceit;
The real logistics, dark yet true,
is knowing what that mirror knew:
That fools will jest and kings will feign,
and madness drives the human chain;
But those who see — and still remain —
bear wit’s sharp edge without the stain.

So toast, my friend, to jest and sneer,
for truth still whispers loud and clear;
The joke’s on them — the crowd, the stage,
who mock the world yet fear the cage.
And if they laugh, let them — for soon,
they’ll meet their echo ‘neath the moon;
And in that glass, both cracked and blurred,
they’ll face themselves — without a word.

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