Lear

A Mood Poem

He stumbles in the rainstorm
‘Mong the craggy rocks and barren waste
The sky is dark and angry 
Spitting tears into his wild face
The water falls from beard to chest
Past finery once pure
The torrent drenches what was ripped
in foul and frenzied burst

The chaos of the evening 
Touches what occurs inside his mind
As from his throne he’s ripped and torn
By progeny infantalized
If only violent winds would stop
If only waves would cease to blow —
No, no! Rage on, you tempest winds —
Blow! Blow! Blow!

A ghost of lunar madness meets
The King in his insanity
A sacred angel visage; 
A beggar pure in savagery
He cradles him and strokes his crown
(The king a babe and subject found)
A prophet, priest, and king, this man
Who dares not speak a sound

Poor Lear, Poor Lear 
Who pridefully
Accepted foolish flattery
And banished rationality
Cordelia, so savagely

On Dover’s Banks,
This tragedy
Will end in unhumanity
As one knave single-handedly
Slays all the ones you love