To be alive or not to be,
Conception by the world’s Creator
Taken in stenography
By one of Avon, William Shakespeare
 
Tragedy, a life quill-written,
Dipped in blackest, deepest gall
Of English oak on floppy vellum,
Scratched and scrawled
 
At one end of a finished line
A period, a rounded splash,
The smallest part of God’s design:
Hamlet, prince, depressed and brash
 
Never would there be a script,
No Hamlet and his force of will,
Rage and pride, ambition clipped
Unless dictated to the quill
 
And if a microscope should peer
To amplify the tiny dot,
A ragged roundness would appear
Of that which is and which is not
 
And this is Hamlet, circumscribed
Within the action of a scene
That stretches out to all alive
And what is yet to be, has been