where the writers are
Shakespeare's Refusal to Blog

Forsooth, why? My actors are my blog, what platform need I

Save the sounding planks, which I chose, knowing full well

They would amplify my thoughts across the reaches of time

The swells of oceans, the dark glass that will glimmer still

When all that's left of us, will be dust and recollection. This nutshell,

This hallowed house, made holy by our tears, in these orizons,

All will be remembered. No shallow stab at immortality

But instead a hill of lasting contentment. Time will claim no victory,

And if I had a comment on the storms of the age, what foolish knave

Would bid me hide it anywhere but in plain sight? The middle

Of the crowd, the safest place from which to stand and jackanape.

No, if I have to make a stand, let it be a stand. May they jeer,

May they laugh, but I'll hear it twixt my own two ears, and

Therein, in the echoes of the paying crowds, from the gallery

To the mud, will I find all I will ever need, of immortality.