A Prince Of Denmark Poem by John F. McCullagh

He only lives three hours at a time,
most often in a dark and crowded room.
He is haunted by a sense of deja-vue-,
As if he knows he's racing towards his doom.
He rests, between incarnations, like the rest
in dots of ink upon a printed page.
Three hours at atime he lives, not more,
within the walls of Castle Elsinore.
If only like a crab he could go backwards
Perhaps Polonius could evade the tomb
But, no, alas, its all predestination;
A poisoned foil will lead him to damnation.

We will live and die and be forgotten;
That is the fate of all us common clay.
But Prince Hamlet with outlive this generation;
He lives in every moment of his play.