Plays in my head like Shakespearean romantics,
fantastical narrative gymnastics.
Tragic heroes with manic tendencies but a kinship with the mania.
To be steeped in blood my own,
shown an end to the infinite wading shading life with the trivial.
Sometimes of lives not mine but that trivial shade blocks the shine,
even as I pine and search for meaning.
Each other life is its own paid sentence,
lived in pained silence
while we all try to pave purpose.
I am happiest in my dreams,
imagined flights of fancy, fantasy and love
but nothing escapes the thrum,
That eternal shade.