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Troubling are masks... the faces of friends, my face
Met unaware, and your face: where I mum
Your doubleganger writhes, wraiths are we come
To keep a festival, none but wraiths embrace;
Our loyal rite only we interlace,
Laertes' winding-sheet done and undone
In Ithaca by day and night... we thrum
Hopeful our shuffles, trusting to our disgrace.

Impostors... O but our truth our fortunes cup
To flash this lying blood. Sore and austere
The crown we cry for, merely to lie ill
In grand evasion, questions not-come-up.—
I am dreaming on the hour when I can hear
My last lie rattle, and then lie truly still.


Submitted by Holt

Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 16 Oct 2008 2:58 AM | Viewed: 1670 times

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