Actors

We, the depictors,

of scenes read and writ,

with faces of angels,

we oft read and then sit,

Repertoire a-quiver,

an arrow to draw,

a target to pierce,

the audience heart,

Which soaks then in pathos,

O nectarous brine,

to doth insight bravos,

N the empathetic sigh,

But the pain of these I's,

is just that they are bound,

to live repetitions,

to regurgitate sound,

So oh what a shame,

for this once private few,

that garner attention,

just so we might know "who"

(..is richer than us presumably?)

An Old One, Influenced by a Song

So the people set up rooms,

that they set apart with walls,

and they organized their tombs,

in case they witnessed falls,

of the brothers and the sisters,

down the olden stone age stairs,

that were kept below the separate rooms,

and some thought it was fair.

The people who made the rooms and walls,

liked the shade of their own skin,

which they considered shadeless,

and they let few others in,

into the stain-glass hallways,

the dark unholy vaults,

to make outrageous far-fetched cries,

and point at others' faults.

The Envious Tirade

When I realized to myself

That textual reason

Could reflect textual treason

I was a tad thrown off,

And dispersed behind

My eyelids floated

Wriggling moths

That told me nothing

Except to persevere.