The whorl unsteadies in the whirl and
wharve.
The skip of ruin catches Will on the hop.
Like a gasping fish hopeless on a hook,
He waits for the gaff to flip him lifeless.
Truth is, he shoulders a sea of sadness
That washes him wordless back to Stratford
Not even the shepherd sun herding high
The sheepy sky with shining rods of light
Can spin him a syllabic shoal of smiles.
A shadow self in a leached spot of time,
He broods on death, a hope-to-gloom
cascade.
Beckett reminds him, what is terrible
Is to have thought. Indifferent Godot
Has a long white beard. Misericorde.
Lear sits in his chair of state, a hovel
On a heath, undone, unaccommodated,
His majesty scarred by his maker’s mark.
Belated, he learns the value of love;
But Cordelia's death leaves us hopeless.
Will’s iced soul gives out on a wheel of
fire;
Gods sport with the circle he can’t
complete.
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