The world is a stage
Where scripts are scripted to scenes
Casts rehearse and cram their lines
Some distorting the manuscripts.
The prompters patiently waiting
For a penitent heart,
To refit and redirect a course
Pride a shield to their souls.
Drunk by the mundane of popularity
Relegating the Scripter behind the scene
Building castles in the air,
Footing fruitless bills.
On a bustling and hustling roles
Some casts sink in suffocation
And take the exit route,
Waiting to receive their retributions
Behind the scene.