Immortal Words

Life should neither be some walking shadow,

nor a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

signifying nothing.

Macbeth misspoke.

For life is prose and poetry

both embraced and intertwined,

like latticed lace and iron ring.

And existence can endure beyond a given hour,

in our vestige of scribbled lines,

soft or hard,

to lighten shades

and even with shifting tides

keep otherwise fleeting footprints firm within the sand.

When strong hearts have ceased to beat,

or unworldly wings raise us from this coil,

perchance an imprint of character lingers still

if only in a living thought.

Not nothing,

but instead a passed ideal,

a fable               

or a dream perhaps,                 

for their enjoyment as much a guiding hand

even if told by fools,

and most certainly full of whispers

and clangs,

and no small amount of

madness.

Further yet, each bard's great prize,  

to carve infinity in a row of words,

and share immortality

with the gods.

*A souffle of Shakespeare, seasoned with a pinch of Blake.