A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry But were we burdened with like weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.
– William Shakespeare
What is the book but a name,
the sorrows lived in haunting
All peoples with kindred same
In vain we air our laundry daunting,
And somehow from within dark moment
Antagonist is left to grasp at shadow
When finding our collective foment
We slip the noose and conjure up the hero.
Irony is oft defined as fame posthumous
Ascertaining that which slips the mention,
Yet in quiet moments lost to us,
The unknown words collect attention.
To wit here lies twixt canon members
Title of one who penned much pain.
Upon this base he lay the sullen timbers
Of the house we dare to visit – again and again.