by R.W. Dean
Like children, singing songs they’ve learned by rote,
Their words, just simple noises set to rhyme,
Each day we don an old familiar coat,
And step out on the stage just one more time.
We’ve learned to play our parts with style and grace,
Each line delivered like it was our own,
A finely crafted mask, to hide our face,
An ending for the play, we’ve always known.
If Pierrot should pine for Pierrette,
Or Cyrano should die for fair Roxanne,
What matter that our tears should fall, for yet,
We know it’s part of some celestial plan.
And thus, the play of life goes on unchanged,
Our choices, by the fates, all prearranged.