Shakespearean Variation: Sonnet 23
As an unperfect actor on the stage,
an incompleteness haunts my play of part;
no balanced shade adorns my semblant rage,
and words delivered lack both life and heart.
I often misremember words to say,
I stumble in the ceremony's rite,
fatigue disables skills that they decay,
and rarely do I hit the note I might.
My stage is life; no flowered eloquence
pours forth the feeling of my human breast;
I stammer thanks in shoddy recompense
and pass from scene to scene, heart unexpress'd.
-- In what script are my lines and actions writ?
I cannot improvise with untaught wit.
