Sitting in Michael's Lap
An expectation is a fickle thing;
That's half of hoping, half of wonder spun –
But rare the day that manages to bring
Each dream we hoped to find when it begun.
We rather find a dance of compromise,
Where partners learn to hear that different drum,
Adapting to its rhythm. Critic's eyes,
The eyes of flesh that instantly become
Assailed with flaws, when none were found in dreams,
Now hold a real, perhaps imperfect soul,
And truth of "is" divides the veil of "seems."
The fantasy and fact, when taken whole,
Might manifest themselves a greater thing
Than either was alone; or there may be
A union with a more unpleasant sting,
That sputters there, and dies. What eyes may see,
Or souls perceive, may notably depart
From every expectation – does this cast
A shadow urging forfeit? Is the start
Of every day, each step of future past,
To be defined by "closer to the grave?"
Not so; there only needs a pliant mind,
That leaves the heart no longer censor's slave,
And smooths the flaws that crueler eyes might find,
That hands might feel the warmth no dream can lend.
Although the road may differ from our choice,
Perhaps it yet might prove the better end,
A song unknown, but sung in sweeter voice.
Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange...
--William Shakespeare, from The Tempest