Poetry on Freedom Plaza
by Steve Cook
‘Tis death, not life, that's just a passing thing,
A change of garment only for new scenes,
And we, the cast, extemporizing bring
Ourselves fresh-garbed upon this stage of dreams.
How oft it seems twixt scenes we lost the plot,
Somehow forgot the Acts that came before
'Pon which some curtain of the night did drop
And tangled in its strings would raise no more.
And every time we take the stage we swear
We never trod these well-worn boards ere now
And of our parts we're oh so well aware
They're small and thus uniquely ours somehow.
But, oh dismay, hath time - if we but knew -
Its pages strewn with grave - and rave - reviews.
