Today is Shakespeare's birthday; born 1564.
He'd fully be four-hundred forty-seven,
If still alive--not passing through death's door--
No fate of void, return, or hell, or heaven.
So sad, that even such a brilliant brain
Was made to die, degrading into dust.
That each of us, with all our joy and pain,
With all our love and friendship, hope and trust,
With all the flames of life, at last go cold;
And all the loyalties of love, fall by;
And we--the luckier we!--turn grey and old;
Unluckier ones, like brightest suns, soon die.
Yet, the flash-by of a thousand mortal years,
So small--next to eternity--appears.

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Written by Michael LP, aka MLP
aka PoetWithCancer, aka PWC, aka (thanks to Luna) Mr. Poet
Written on Sunday, April 23, 2011  11:07 pm PDT
70 degrees F.  Humidity: 26%  Forecast: overcast
Copyright (C) 2011 by Michael LP.  All rights reserved