I read something here that was very good and followed some rules that I didn’t understand, so I wrote something that’s not very good and doesn’t follow any rules in particular. Because I’m done with rules. I’m done with most things, actually.
*
Might I lay in slumber
Might I rot. Might I decay
Might I find this night
To be not followed by a day
To stop this haunting vision
You are gone. I know not where
Be it hell or be it heaven
I ask the Lord to take me there
That I might sleep through winter
Beneath these trees that splinter. Leaves that fall
For reasons which I would rather not explain I am incapable of words right now, and possibly forever. 38 are as many as I can muster. More than I can muster well.
I was looking at a post from Kate, in which she suggests that ‘life is no different from acting on a stage’, and I thought it begged for a Shakespearean reference.
For whatever reason I started thinking about Marcel Marceau and how sad, to me, he always looked. It seemed that people that don’t talk much give the impression of covering something up. I don’t talk much myself, to be honest.
*
The curtain opens, I must show The only face you’ll ever know Clasped lips that hold the truth inside A costume that can barely hide The scars, the buried injuries The nightmares. Bitter memories No role here for the truth to play The audience must have it’s way The actor, he must always act Absorb the laughter, not react Mimed emotion. Hidden pain Tomorrow do it all again For all the world’s a stage, you see Come watch my comic tragedy
*
I have never been a great fan of Shakespeare, to be honest, thinking him to be something of a hack, but a lot of his words were planted within me during an almost forgotten education. If I had to pick a favourite quote, though, it would be, ‘As flies to wanton boysare we to the gods; they kill us for their sport’.
In a long ago production of King Lear, by the way, I was (type?) cast as ‘The Fool’. I jest you not.
Richmond Road 