Wilt thou wonder on the sheer lack of time?
When everything seems a'missed?
Like streetlights on heavy raine'd afternoons,
When thou read from heavy books,
Painted with words of artists' hand,
He who so masterfully created, masterpieces, that thee of thy world reads for ever after,
Such pieces so carefully crafted, with ink and pen, page and paper,
Of dear Hamlet, he who holds a skull and speaks to friend not foe,
Of dear MacBeth, for he who killed his king for right of power,
For dear Romeo and juliet, the star crossed lover fools who unite
For his other characters, deemed not as worthy, but still contributing
Of book smart Horatio, dreamy laughter of Mercutio, brave but bold Benvolio?
He who gave us these stories, these plays, that have sunk into our very knowledge,
our very essence, he who is now gone, though his stories live on for ever after,
can we not acknowledge his brains?
For a stitch is placed in time,
a stitch upon his artistic talent gone.