The Bard's Babble

“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.” ~William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act V, Scene I I weep by a stardust shore where the seraphs sing Tangerine tears rain despair 'neath a velveteen veil My melancholic muse, muslin-wrapped in ice-cold caskets Slain by ruinous romance swirled in absinthe abstractions Despondent sloughs bespoke the depths of my soul Saffron scars scream sonnets through metaphorical mists Oh, how morose melodies paint scabs over pastiche strophe Pregnant pause, so precious, submerged in lurid lament But then it whispered, a voice unvarnished by purple plumes A verse, it bloomed, untainted by thesaurus bleeds Sculpting off silken scaffolds pasted upon profligate poetry Leaving a profounder palate for plainer prosody Fools thought wisdom speak in sequin-laced soliloquy But wise men abrades from calligraphic charade