The stage is set for a drama so tense,
But the players aren’t willing to revel in the suspense.
There’s many a tide that makes hardly any sense,
Taken at many a flood viewed through a deeper lens.
The placid waters have taken a notorious turn,
As we drink in the drops in our attempt to learn,
What lies beyond the ocean we tend to discern,
Is an eternal drama uncovering plenty of urn.
The fun of it all is in the judgments of art we take,
To confuse plotted journeys for reality’s sake,
There ain’t a mask we’re ready to make,
Dripping with abundant emotion to make a deserted lake.
When Naturalism plots a plot-less path of laze,
Romanticism entwines it to form a startling maze,