Not a sonnet, the Globe was his closet
Changing
stages being the given chances
Worst
fallen we scribble into existence
Famewards.
But attend to it, exit prone.
Windows
burning all the night
As
words turned paper to tragedy.
His
family alone in rivery country,
His
pen finding fault in persons.
But
harder to refute, the right
In
anyone’s argument, their turning belief
And
silences that like hours seem.
Fitting
each phrase in its spiral down
To
nothing, up to the flags’ array
Watching
for his choice moment, Mercy.
