Wrong again, as oft I've been of late -
My dull impressions of those we've long exalted,
The great, the bold, the boring, old, and late -
Yet Shakespeare hath so little of us made
Who scratch at leaves and carve at trees with chisels
And hammer dents to shape our shoddy writ
Until it's beaten, bruised beyond repair
And far beside the point that put it there.
So wrongly we admire awful landscapes
Of verdant overgrowth and luscious weed.
Though Nature hides beneath it, far below,
Waiting for us to take our pens and go,
We gawk in awe, congratulate her, high
With pleasant imagery and pangs of passion -
Passion forced into our lungs and held
Just long enough to feel our heads go light
And then expelled, so not to breathe it in,
More vulnerable there than where we first begin.
As disillusioned, still we have no course
But to shred our leaves and burn our forests down.
Fire can move, as poet never could - 
Uplift, or settle to dust among the ground.
My words alone can never take me there.
So drift instead atop the flames of Shakespeare.

The End

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