King Lear


Perhaps I’m wearing King Lear’s crown
With no sails or propellers or a lone oar to carry me through

And amidst the mutinies of my lobes
And hulls emptied of hope

And clarity draining through storm sewers
I will be the quintessential falling birdman

Madness will ransack my closet drawers
And leave with collections of clutter

Like a garbage bin filled to the brim
Where crows will sit on top and feast

And soon the clay pot on the scarecrow’s head
Will burst like a Claymore mine

And my pieces will scatter like sown rice grains
And the crows will sit and clap like royalty

As I’m dragged through the stage-front
In my curtain call to my own sanity


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