Self-Made Stage - With Apologies To the Bard

Somewhere deep in the recesses of one's heart A tiny voice speaks of love and compassion Of what one could be, if one chose, even now for a start, But want it one must with an all-encompassing passion. It needs not the urging of one's other self in the brain Asking one to use logical thought and set on the path Of pleasure and avarice and, in endeavoring, refrain From the clutter of ideals, altruism and angst-filled wrath. Between the two (the Yin and the Yang?) lies the pit Of perdition resonating with the twang of irretrievable arrows; Words once mouthed shape scenes which neither fit With whatever the feeling or thoughts of the selves in their narrows. Thus each, caught in one's own mix of the madness Goes about creating individual worlds and carries out tasks, Sometimes filled with elation, more often with undefined sadness, Donning, as fits the scene, grotesque tragic or comic masks. Did Shakespeare speak of the world being a stage, and, before exeunt Players saying their things, acting out their parts, of seven acts, I agree with the bard but to a limited, very limited, extent, For a man creates his own world , his stage, with which he interacts.