Dear William,

With benign heart, I pithree, hear my plea-

With thy cruelty – I find you harbor the most profound of schemes

For thou, who fillest the pages with such ceaseless speech,

Shouldst be the first to know the weight of empty breath?

A surgeon, a monarch, a virtuoso of a thousand words!

Oh, how you claim such a foolish creed

’A man with so few words is the best of men.’

For every line doth swell your pages

Yet you call a silent man a preacher?

Thy own quill betrays thee, William –

Be careful how you tread these seas.

I anger and rage with each word

‘Hell is empty. All the devils are here.’

How thy lies I see so barren.

Speak to me, if all the fiends are here

Where then have fallen heavens, wayward hosts?

If devils tread this weary earth

What is this grace I see?

Do you call us – such monsters?

Or dost thou, in secret, wear a cloak of a barbaric poet?

I now speak to thee, Hamlet, forsaking Willaim’s cruelty – hear me.

Can't thou see what he hath wrought upon thee?

To gaze upon the brightness of the sun,

Of nights forever blinded by the stars 

To see the beauty of the dark

Yet he holds you captive by the dawn.

Of rain that doth fall like shooting stars,

Of a crude smile that tears these nights of light

Of a blinding sun too bright

To flip back your pages to the start,

And use Shakespeare’s ink once again.

Of your pages burned by fire

To water them again

Tell me, Hamlet, dost thou wonder deep within:

If the ink were thine own, chosen by thy will,

Wouldst the story end in blue?

'Come what may, time and the hour doth race through the roughest of days.'

How dare thee utter such words, Willaim? Dost thou not know that time forgets the day?

And every morrow, time doth repeat its course,

The selfsame thing, o’er and o’er again.

Hast thou no pity for those who long to spare it?

Thou dost claim that man is free to act in hope to change his fate,

Yet dost thou not perceive that we are bound by free will's weight?

Chained, forever tamed, we are caged

For with each breath we take, our liberty doth fade,

As those who speak and those around us, our freedom doth invade.

Saddened I am grievously dismayed by thee,

For such power, thou dost wield in thy speech,

Yet thy poisonous tongue lies unto us perennially,

In thy books, with words that overreach.

Thy power is crude and thus is abused.

Grounding lessons that leave us confused,

Astray from the fruits of truth that we once sought

Malevolence seems to be thy’s muse.

"I care not; a man can die but once.”

Yet, in the same breath, a proclamation you seethe:

"Cowards die many times before their deaths."

Thou weave such oppositions,

That thy beliefs seem naught but fragile threads,

Torn asunder by thy own mendacious tongue.

Nay, you have not a resilient ground—

Thou art naught but a thief, filching from true faithful hands

Out of fear that thine own shall be found wanting—

A fearful coward’s heart, cloaked in the guise of such lying boldness.

I see you fear the judgment of those who see through thee.

Grand dost thou speak

Thou whose voice doth echo so bland,

I have fettered thy whispers:

"The world is but a stage, and life a play,

A tale unfolding in seven acts."

Dost thou contend?

I bid thee, render me:

Dost thou sit or stand?

Art thou an actor? Nay, then tell me,

Art thou a meagre bystander,

Watching as thy fate’s play unfolds,

A gazer of thy own wyrd?

Or art thou a thespian,

Reading thy own script,

Trembling as it distorts?

Or dost thou sit among the audience,

Cyclically laughing at their own benevolence?