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japhyjunket |
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4.23.2003
A Day Late For Shakespeare*
Here in this seasons melancholy winter'd spring,
My roach-filled room and convalescents robe becomes the scene
by which I play out a plotless tale of self-reckoning.
Where Stratford's long-dead son's the mirror I think most keen,
Most like in Plato's form, to that future thing I long to be,
Or not; more likely just a younger versions daydream
of quilled keyboard skills that have no bearing on impotent me.
You've become a bronze-hewn statue and an idolater is what I seem.
Born the date you died, a lousy worshipper, I miss the mark by a day
and bring your feastly offering too late, a dish now served cold,
So your bright candle's spark will surely fail to light my way.
Thoughtless, thankless, I will depart from your folio's temple fold.
If I must choose between slavish love to your storied everlasting flame
and nothingness, I'll forget you Will, take to the storm, and seek out my own quicksilver fame.
*Shakespeare's birthday/deathday was April 23rd. Yesterday.
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