A shade, the spectre,

A creature that makes many faces,

A smile, a grimace, blankness, ecstacy, warmth,

It is the greatest thespian of all others,

It dances, it fights, it singings, it creates art, it loves, it draws tears,

It can do so much,

What a fool, a jester, a jackenape,

But within in this gleeful soul is gloom that can infect all,

So much so that this leision is its greatest sore,

Sorrow because it is judged,

Deemed at every wake and turn and to do what continue on,

Continue on with silent exasperation,

Quieted pleas that fall on deaf ears,

And for what?

The stage, for satire that it presents in a haughty manner only to be denied of true thought?

And this is not the single disheartened soul,

No it is of tens. hundreds, thousands, millions,

Who smile the sly smile to feign jubilation.