The Choir sings while the Scabbard Man follows the Many Armed Knight straight to me. I don't think I'd mind as much if the song isn't always the same.
Hello our old friend
You should know our names by now
He doesn't want your help
Or your love
He wants only our Mercy
Don't worry, we won't hurt him
And you'll never hear him scream
We have all been weighed and found wanting
Keat's Grecian Urn calmly says that truth is beauty. I must dissent. The truth is strong, but weaker than opinion. Facts don't lie, but people do. How many people have ever truly loved the ideal gas law? It brings not one truth, but three. All literary characters, by necessity, must resemble autobiography or biography while simultaneously being neither. How many can love truth? Few try, and far fewer still succeed. How many people have a favorite movie? How many have a personally beloved law of thermodynamics? We love movies, music that sings to a "you" several million times per day on everyone's cd player, ipod or radio, and we associate actors with their roles more than with themselves. I am no different. My poems and remarks I share here are all genuine, but in the end, we are not who we say we are. We have always been and will always continue to be the products of what others believe us to be. Thomas Jackson does not exist. I always tell the truth, and hold nothing back. Unfortunately, there are none close enough to confirm or deny anything for certain. Those of you who venture too close may only come away with bits and pieces of truths, all ugly. When all that's left of me are those verified morsels, and weary sets of thumbs passing by my words in print to seek a poem by Nii Parkes, only the thumbs will matter.