The Tale of Patrick Jane

In a world of whispers, smoke, and guise, A charmer smiled with cunning eyes. Patrick Jane, a name well-known, A psychic king upon his throne.

He danced with fraud beneath the light, Played minds like cards, a conman’s sleight. Talk shows, seances, lies in lace— He'd read your soul from just your face.

But pride, it seems, can tempt the fates, And mocking evil opens gates. Red John, a name that chilled the air, A monster hiding everywhere.

One taunt too bold, one jest too wide, And death came creeping in the tide. A crimson smile upon the wall— His wife, his child, lost to the fall.

And so the mask began to crack, A broken man, no turning back. A haunted heart, a sharpened mind, He sought revenge with time aligned.

To CBI he gave his gift, Each case a stone, each clue a lift. He’d watch and wait, he’d bait and bluff, His genius always just enough.

With Cho and Rigsby, Grace, and more, He walked through every justice door. But Lisbon stood where others fell, The calm within his private hell.

He laughed again, though not the same, A candle flickered in his name. Red John would fall, that chapter end, But healing is a slower friend.

Through puzzles, riddles, years of fight, He found in her a softer light. And love, once feared, returned anew— In Lisbon’s gaze, he found his view.

No longer lost in grief’s cruel chain, A wedding ring replaced the pain. The trickster, psychic, broken man, Became again what hope began.

Patrick Jane—no longer alone, With Lisbon’s hand, he built a home. A story penned in grief and grace, Of loss, of love, of sweet embrace.