3/10/14 {my take on Shakespeare’s “all the world’s a stage”}
The grass was a lurid green,
wildflowers minuscule, half hidden glowed cadaver-white.
Clouds like angry monsters,
puffed and bloated, roamed the sky,
a plastic blue pragmatic mass
under which we mortals lie,
and scurry like insects to and fro
through petty drama ’til we die.