a tree grows

a tree grows in Brooklyn

 not for me, my  friend

my days have reached a number

marked nearer than near the end

yet, I have played king

too a pauper, The

Bard's Othello

recited Yorick's cold bitter end

and alas, a tree grows in Brooklyn

but not for me, my friend

this heart has

held the moment, the pause

applause, ovations that knew

not end

but now, all lighting has gone dark

the castle walls collapsed

within

and still a single tree does grow in Brooklyn

for someone, not me dear friend

as the sits have

long been empty, curtain

lies as worn out thread, and no
  more for me parts are offered, but in the one last

 undertaking - of

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern
are Dead

bkmackenzie

copyrighted 2011

Posted for One Shoot Sunday: Photographer Jacob F. Lucas