Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player.
-Macbeth-
The soul or self by body is firmly bound;
both eyes and brain bind sight as if by strings.
Motion too, by nerves and muscles, is a game
of sly warp and weft on the body’s loom.
This raveling is undone by wear and tear,
and in time, the soul is but a shadow.
This tapestry, in my life, serves shadow
more and more, as halting steps are bound
to fail sometime—a fall, a break, a tear—
and I’ll be like a puppet jerked by strings.
Forget strutting, the drama that will loom
then is a downward slope to the endgame.
It’s no use to fret or attempt to game
the script. It just serves to make the shadow
deeper. When I was young, bright futures loomed
in my plans, but now the key scene is bound
by a plot that demands muted strings,
a small tragedy, with or without tears.
Tomorrow and tomorrow will still tear
me from thoughts of that scene; new games
will play out. Relationships, valued strings
binding me to mine, will fill with shadows.
Remembrance, experience tells, is bound
to fade when time moves on and new hopes loom.
Can I grasp “now” and let go of what looms?
Conscious moments are like candles or tears
that help our vaunted sight but are bound
to go out or dry up when the mortal game
is scored. All miracles end in shadow
then; the players, mere puppets without strings.
Fate has no plans to rewind its played strings.
What it has woven for us on its loom
is the fabric of life and death, of shadow
and light. The lighted scenes play out. No tear
or smile will alter the dramatic game,
as the player to the script is ever bound.
Chance may play a role, like dropped strings on a loom,
but it can’t change the spilled tears and shadows,
or game the play so the hero’s unbound.
