A Letter From Elmiron Poem by Twisted Moon

The best of what I pretend to be, says all the world's a stage,
And with eyes as empty as an animal in a cage,
I solemnly rage,
If that is so, than I do not belong to it,
It belongs to me,
It is mine to observe, mine to pessimistically ponder upon,
I am the audacity in the audience,
I am the critic.

Such profound performances are before me,
So deep that I cannot begin to think that I can grasp them,
Yet they claw at my heart like an eagle at its' pray,
And I could feel them flowing throw my veins,
And I perceive what they say,
The world,
A record spinning as it continues to play.

I watch, in afflictive awe and adoration,
If only you could see the world through my eyes,
You would see each hollow character floating through it,
Like a ghost,
Each step inches them closer,
Closer to the climax, to the conclusion,
Closer to the end.

Each character, each ghost, and me,
The hypocritical spectactor,
We are all the same,
We spend every day of our lives preparing for death,
Yet we shutter at the word so harshly, we lose our breath,
And time is relative so we are already dead.

We are all actors, eternally in denial,
And we only get one trial,
This is all we have, and it is already over,
It's such a paradox how we will never be prepared for what has already happened.