If all the world's a stage
a poem on disillusionment and liberation
We wear identities like badges,
each title, an invitation to the stage.
Front row seats, players, or rubbing shoulders in the nosebleed
infinity shatters into bites.
Now we have mouths and eyes
fixed upon a carrot.
All rush front and center while
beyond the stage, the world sings.
We are born of its bone and blood
though we cannot hear its song
till the character peels off the mask
and the colorful theater goes dark.
Through the curtains slips the memory of dirt and wind.
Why are we all actors?
When did we bind ourselves to the part?
If all the world's a stage
I am tired of pretending.
If all the world's a stage
I will no longer prostrate before the light.
About the Creator
E. B. Rowland
From the heart of motherhood, where tenderness and chaos share a breath, I write because I must - to make sense of living, to uplift the overlooked, and to outpour the magic of living raw to the bone.
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