Sonnet for Quiet Library....

The sweat, the blood, the tears upon the stage
paint not a valid picture of the heart
that constantly stretches more than with age
as we make our comedy; business; art.

Lifetimes stretch longer than time spent with ya'll.
Old men and their old wives die in their beds,
as mewling newborn babies learn to crawl.
Yet we continue beating on our heads:

"What is good? What is right? What is the point?"
Our tortured cries scream all throughout the night.
Our bodies ache, our hands reach past their joints
to find the Funny; Make the sorrow Flight.

In hopes of landing peacefully in death,
I'll laugh and laugh and laugh with my last breath.