Sitting in Michael's Lap
Alone with my thoughts, I cannot but wonder
What peril resides in this spell that Iím under --
What price shall demand, what pride there forsaken --
What more might expect, when so easily taken?
So tragic the hope, so painful the dreaming,
Precarious, sifting the truth from the seeming!
How much is too much -- or Ďtis better too little?
Unanswered, they rage -- and Iím caught in the middle ...
The tears will not come -- Iíve named them forbidden --
What I cannot control, I can choose to keep hidden;
So perfect the smile, let no censor decry it:
Though the fortress may fall, I shall only deny it.
Though wonder is past, there is peace in the knowing;
But Ďtis puzzling to sip when your cupís overflowing ...
The choices are plain: to wait, or surrender:
To take up the blade, and resume heartís defender.
I cannot but fail, for all of my trying:
I smother the ember for fear of its dying;
For excess in giving, I suffer receiving --
So much, swiftly offered -- too much for believing.
This tale has no end -- I write no conclusion --
Unless there is aught to be found in confusion;
Unwilling to leave, twice bitten for staying,
Oh I would there were rules for this game we are playing!
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