To be, or not to be?
That is the question to which none can answer
lest we be unwilling to carve our own destiny
in a rockface, permanent and consistant
with time neverending.
To allow yourself to droop and shrug away
each important event the threadspinners
deal is indeed to deny your very existance.
A toast to hemlocke, who's reason
for being is a grant of freedom, from
our own cowardice, in green glasses
to which we now tilt to pursed lips.
If we be silent, then it was meant to be.
If we be still, then it was meant to be.
If we fight tooth and nail for the life
that we meant to take, then we never meant
to take it after all: 'twas only tea.