Ironic that I find my thoughts deferred
from Shakespeare as the actors say their lines.
I listen to Ado, though Nothing’s heard
by my intents, except obscure designs.
Designs that come from somewhere I reside
when focused on my ankle’s metal screws.
And plates my scars obscure, okay they hide
designs of loss I hope I never lose.
Though Beatrice and Benedick may spar
with words that Shakespeare chose to mark his play
Their sound is near, although their wits are far
I miss the meanings of the things they say.
The irony of life is spoken clear
within the grand design I’ve come to hear.