The Play

To try bring together two aspects

And assimilate and not dissect

Like rocks over years conglomerate

And form mountains of might, solid;

Performing a play, he stood morbid.

 

To try build out of nothing, he tried

Earn his fame amidst fame sundries

To raise his hat to a pompous crowd

And adulation, a critic deeply studied;

Watching a play, he sat morbid.

 

To write a soliloquy ‘neath embers glum

And verse with it a carousel of mirth

Yet in earnest rhyme and mould a poem

A romantic epistle in its stead, a sonnet;

Writing a play, vividly morbid.

 

To show the world sorrow unseen

To show the world pain unfelt

Like the winds of desolation, a night cold

Amidst a morose verse from a man old;

Performing a play, upon the stage he shone.

 

To world’s glee, a tear he shed

To world’s sorrow, a smirk he wore

For art and beauty he saw and cried

Unto the end of night, truth and lies;

Watching a play, upon his seat overwhelmed.

 

To anticipate the rain and snow

Of life; behold success and the flow

Of paltry emotions and confusion priceless

And so the artist’s comfort and distress;

Writing a play, upon his work he dies.