“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that mediocrity can pay to greatness”
As the curtains drop on the first
The chorus of applause greets my ear
Unleashed an ravishing thirst
for the praise that is ever so near.
Abound with joy I ponder for a second
For whom does the crowd rejoice?
The actors whose role is dictated
nay, surely the weaver of tales is the object of their attention.
Yet they have only tasted the opening third
of this play that I have crafted
Its reverence the fruit of countless hours
the pedestal to which I stand proudly.
Now pacing back and fourth
I question the nature of the stage
that presents itself as the one true artistry
Lies! for there is no truer artist then my when I pen.
My delusions maintained as I plead the fifth
as though the outcome could be changed
“the worlds the stage and I am the weaver!”
A mocking gaze the reply, as I am led away in chains.
<note> This poem kinda led me astray in the end, I wanted to highlight this concept of “the mediocrity imitating the greatness” and ended with (whats alluded to) an arrogant and delusion criminal being tried for a terrible crime. I do not think I could of strayed further from Oscar Wilde’s intended message from his quote then I did, but hey, such is the nature of this stream of consciousness style of prompt writing that I am testing at the moment. Thanks for reading!