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~The dust would have a wicked tongue
if it could speak once
I hide out in refurbished beauty,
With words I stole, from a clever somebody;
And tinkertoy them together, with a flourish.
More and more stays hidden from reach
As gracefully we arc around the center,
Going far from view, on each new venture.
The benefit of long days no longer obvious:
All the fresh flowers ever cut wind up dead,
As acts in plays end on their last note,
And the stage lead gets her future dead bouquet.
She takes her bow; bowing all the same
To both the past and the unborn future:
The words just said, and the part you played
Forgotten as dust, on a dead playwrights bust.
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