A tribute to Hamlet, Act III, Scene I

To act, or not to act- that is the question?

Whether ‘tis simpler to stay in the mind’s eye of imagination?

Or leave that paradise and work to make it reality?

To dream, to work no more- and by a dream to say we end the pain, and daily toils that doth burden the mind-

‘Tis a paradox that no mind can solve

To think, to toil, to rest and dream:

Ay there’s the conundrum

For in slumber what wonder may come when your mind is free and your body still?

Must give us thought.

There’s the idea that makes a long life of man.

For whom would bear the trials and tribulations that make men weep?

The corporate corruption,

The false men’s smiles,

The ticking of the clock,

The dirty dress,

The pangs of a lover,

The aching mind of the artist,

And the wrongful oppression of an idea,

When it is they themselves who posses thought of reason and passion.

Who would need a parcel of intelligence?

To wave around as a peacock would its plume?

But that dread of the outside world, the unfamiliar lands,

From whose light warps the body with woe,

Puzzles the mind, and makes our thoughts bear all the ideals both pure and ill rather than be true unto ourselves?

Thus work makes sloths of us all, and yet through the strife a resolution comes to light. ‘Tis rapt in concise thought and doth erase our fears in such a grand way and motion.

The actions we must reluctantly perform,

In truth ‘tis the very thing that makes our dreams come true.

© 2013 Jared "I.J" Steinberg. All Rights Reserved.

#poetry