Shakespeares words once beauty were,
through thought and speech they spoke to her.

Though in translations time was lost,
at dire end the beauty cost.

For only few still do perceive,
the words wrote down as he would need.

A scholar wise will still read on,
pursuing beauty long since gone.

Dead set in ways that harbor pain,
when sleepless nights is all you gain.

For trust of past is love soaked daggers,
each will stab and you will stagger,
and only now must I believe
it is not Shakespeare,
it is me.