In knowing how my heart aches, I know not
Where to hide my sorrow. Etched, onto flesh
So numbed, by the cold break of tomorrow.
My thoughts it would seem, merely cascading
Sullen faces; the infinite places
We had seen.
Afflicted by a love so fleeting -
You left it biting at my being
In some callous bout of cruelty, unforeseen.
For sake no more than infidelity...
You did but everything
To forget me.
Yet you see it most in dramatists;
A trial of false feelings eloquent,
As if to belittle their own.
And still the latter more prevalent -
A trait I'd grown to love;
Be it the marrow, the mere dust
That forms my bones.
And yet I evermore despise -
I could hunt the breach, the distance
In those eyes
As they meet mine.
And all notion, upon notion, of retrieval
Will not help me seek the better
Of your evils,
For you chose to make the bed
In which you lie.
And so my darling, promiscuous love,
My mind breeds only bitterness.
While that bloody, bludgeoned organ
In my chest beats memories
Vigorous.
He penned plays in verse with great ease
But just his rivals to displease
Greene called him upstart crow
And reading him, even Marlowe
Raised eyebrow
Playwright and actor in theatre
Shrewd observer of human nature
In shylock he portrays minority psyche
Callow youth's indecision,
In Hamlet’s to be not to be
His songs as fresh as morning dew
Telling secrets of life in lines a few
'Friends, Romans and countrymen'
Remains, till date, rhetoric's rare specimen
It's true, he had jealous rivals and adversaries
But, then he had equally great contemporaries
Eventually he surpassed established wits
And outsmarted even University Dramatists
It’s true,
Lear-Othello-Macbeth are pessimistic plays
But aren’t his sonnets sanguine as sunrays?