For God doth know
what curiosities that we cannot dream.
Alas poor Yorick!
Why hast thou chosen but mere me to tell
What the prince never heard?
Why must I say what all fall on muted ears?
How is this not cruel?
Not crude?
To mend thine secret within me?
For God doth know what truths we will never comprehend.
Secret is the dust that only may enclose the egoist proud,
And may never cloud the lone but meekest soul,
Secret are the worms that shine thine crown so smooth,
That writhe to lessen your once view,
Feasting upon thine greedy ignorance:
Of the world that you nor prince nor any
Savest God will ever know…
