O fair john.
Tis indwelled by moonstruck, star-crossed, lie withrs.
only darker the hour, more sinister souls,
Sprouting from the depths, flowers of Psykhe,
Wilting oer with inauspicious intent.
On calloused benches, sit I. Surrounded.
Tis nominal enliven ,
A combination, engulfing tap own.
Sudden thoughts, past and present, hath grasp thee
the like an overwhelming wave of Poseidons
Washing over… Alas! swear out up am I?
Drinking sorrows, drowning thoughts, lessons learned.
Sink late do I to the depths of my
The current carrying swift waves of old
Pure elegiac emotions consume me.
I reach the underpinning,
Gently coming to a rest.
Body and mind still transposing feelings.
Slowly enveloped by the
commencement serenity of the moment.
Rudely removed am I,
From my peaceful affectionateness by a firm hand
Grasping my shoulder and clout me up,
Throughout the current of my drawn out life.
Catching strobes, exhibit peaks of my own plot.
Moments tugging at folds of my being.
Up to the light, up to the surface.
Slowly realizing my long purpose.
It is a taleÂ
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Â
Signifying nothing.Â
Macbeth hath dealt with acidulated internal strifes.
Forcefully succumbing pessimism.
Meaningless everything seems, O merely halt!
What is love if not life?
Eighteen old age was I when Anne became exploit.
Entering adulthood, rushed into love,
Head oer heels, Aphrodite hath prevail.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
moreover mine own blood pumps hereafter,
Even after mine own heart hath halts.
Just as Banquo and Duncans heartbeats echo,
bear on sanity of Macbeths ears.
Echos carry past Macbeths ears to mine own,
Falling into rhythm with my own heart.
The matching beats, pushing love through my veins,
Love for my family and love for my art.
Speech be sooth, whats done is done. Malignant.
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