The world, a stage,
Where scripts are scripted to scenes,
Casts rehearse and cram their lines,
Some distorting the manuscripts.
The prompters patiently waiting,
For a penitent heart,
To refit and redirect a course,
Pride a shield to their souls.
Drunk by the mundane of popularity,
Relegating the Scripter behind the scene,
Building castles in the air,
Footing fruitless bills.
On a bustling and hustling roles,
Some casts sink in suffocation,
And take the exit route,
Waiting to receive their retributions,
Behind the scene.