Some of our streets
look like blasted heaths
with King Lears and Fools
wandering around, heads uncovered
wailing in the tempest.
Meanwhile in the walled estates
Goneril and Regan plan
to raise armies and sweep
all before them. It is as it always
has been. It is a story as old
as mankind, and as unkind,
mired in strength and vigor.
May Lear find his Cordelia,
and live in her bosom,
not torn from her,
another trophy above the hearth.
A Writing Corner 