Joker

The Joker's Riddle

In London’s misty lanes I hear a laugh,
A cackling echo that no Londoner can halt.
Not a clown of court, but mortal’s worst delight,
A mind unravelling under the city’s night.

He wears a claret jacket, the colour of roses walled,
With a twisted smile that breaks even the bravest wall.
“Have you seen your heart?” he asks, a flash of wit,
His words a rotten joke, a delicious, bitter bit.

The rooftops above buzz with traffic’s grim parade,
Yet his plan unfolds in the mind’s dim glade.
“A trick?”, he poses—mirrors, silk, the paper’s crinkling,
A ripple in the realm where order’s quite distinctingly linked.

From the Hollywood stages to the puritan Thames,
His legend spreads—madness is his fames.
Not a cartoon in a comic strip, rather a dare,
A test of sanity in the night’s cold air.

He’s the stark mirror to the policeman’s strict,
A midnight jester that refuses the social drift.
Yet buried in the raucous flash and guile,
A man whose heart dares to purposely compile.

“Smile, dear world!” Then cackles wield,
A paradox of gloom twisted into playful yield.
In quiet corners of the mind’s looms, I see
The Joker’s piece of truth, bare as it can be.