Act

To act is but a plaything of deeds done,
Made wild, romantic, to entertain, fun
In a dish for all the masses that come.
But still, hidden underneath that mass, one
Can see, as though through the trees, that the run
On, this repetition of jokes, has gone
Through the years as a hoax; and as a pawn
Does take his life for the sake of kings, lawns
Do take the bite of the blade, and spring fawns
Are but a myth made for children, a con,
So then is the act but a play upon
The reality of what was. But fond
Memories caught up in the storm of love,
Acted out by men and women above.

                                          Act, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012