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Monday, July 19, 2004 

The makeshift shelter was as an oven,
Sparked firstly by a godly eye above
And again from more mortal ones below,
As our attention, fixed as an arrow
Veering wildly off its mark, did concede
That these overwrought actors' words do be
Those penned by that not unknown English Bard.

Here be promises, that simple coin can
Buy some hours' worth of quick enlightenment,
Or that words keep their straight and narrow path
Better than those who survive, who translate
These echoes from a time gone and somewhat
Embarassing. Here lie promises' fruit,
Withered under the weight of ugly wool.

They scream, they stamp, these impersonators
Of the living. Breathing through masks, speaking
Dead sounds, they ring with an empty wisdom.
Come, songs of the Bard, pluck from me some faith.
Not from these dolls, insults to the child
Finding herself in their plastic eyes; but
From decent words and their defenders, deeds.

About me

  • I'm daft
  • From Arlington, Virginia, United States

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