Sunday, October 23, 2011

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?)

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