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?)
No comments:
Post a Comment