In the Hateful Wastefulness of Mediocrity
by Michael Doyle

Is it as it seems some kind of conspiracy
This hateful wastefulness of mediocrity
Clearly, I am not genius quite enough
For I, in my simplicity, to hazard a bluff

That human nature is an understanding
I hold in any regard too commanding
Like how Shakespeare is softly profound
In the ways of mankind chased around

Cold nights in Denmark hold their suspicion
As a ghost seen before knows its derision
Silent as it leaves with dawn's breaking
Sheer as the will of those who've known life's aching

Pale shades doomed from dance to merely wander
At the edges of kingdoms lost, torn asunder
Suffering torments until finally laid to rest
The past avenged as it were a child's test

Deep in the soul is born the pain of the guilty
That once called upon itself as if family
Figments conjured from on one's wicked imagination
Vengeance descends in the name of the nation

Laertes travails to Paris to embrace his art
That cannot be carried so far as an empty heart
There in the elevated parts within human speech
Are the truths of the soul, bared just within reach

What a piece of work is the reality of the man
Who protests a mocking innocence as if he can
It is all naught but the green-eyed beast of jealousy
That makes its short work of feigned fidelity

Phrases that call and fall out in our memory
Are a just part remaining of the Bard's legacy
What are the chances then of avoiding the blurring
As the bonds of faith keep passionate hearts stirring

By giving everyone our ear and keeping our voice
We make our passage through life as our own choice
Dressed two steps up from the man that I've yet to be
I present myself awkwardly and sorrow's humility

(c) May 26, 2021  Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved