“As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods.
They kill us for their sport.”
― William Shakespeare, King Lear
I am not what I seem, this seeming that undoes me,
Unbinds me in my mind from that love’s dark seeming life.
Cordelia, poor Cordelia, my child, my heart, my life…
A Father defrocked of his dream, his existence,
The mocking throng that unhinged me leads me into this brokenness..
Where am I, who am I, questions I no longer even believe in
Much less believe have answers worth all meaning; the mind cleft,
Torn among its waking and sleeping dreams,
No longer trusts the moorings of this untamed wilderness of lies and men.
How lost among those stones, waters of another age,
The shifting currents like my mind wander…
What was I thinking? Ah, yes, the sweet girl lost in love?
No, no, she is here, isn’t she? I am forgetful, her face, her face…
I cannot see her, remember her, my dearest love, my child.
How she wept, oh the tears in my old age still bring her back, but changed…
I sought the path of reason’s peace, found none,
And now these bones crawl among the silent roots,
Snorting the blood and flesh of dead things…
The flesh is its own doom. I, mine to go, dust into dust, forgotten…
©2021 S.C. Hickman