Early

The eastern view is dark,
But I am looking there;
Young Shakespeare knew these hours
Well writ with sonnets fair.

And every day and on was spent
To ply the words that paid the rent
For page, for stage, for unsaid rage
Woven through with threads of what he meant.

To fly, to dream, to turn and find
No thought for reasons black, unblind
To make the way through hidden paths
And on in to his outspoke mind.

And yet I sit with coffee here, with digits one and zero
Attempting to be witty, but in awe of him my hero.

- Steve