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
more for me parts are offered, but in the one last
undertaking - of
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern
are Dead
are Dead
bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2011
