Shakespeare Confined

Lear and Macbeth pour out softly from pen to paper. Heavy pages. We'll all remember this year; 1606.

The plague does black business with everything. Rats, in their millions, swirl like ants; like people.

But poets have no time for despair. Apocalypse is but a minor inconvenience, another great spring for words.

The darkness of such an age, in our hands, is warm clay. And this writer's desk is an altar to outline history's chiaroscuros, carving jewels on that gloom.

So you too, reading tales, can bear witness to the highest plateau, where death is an ornament.

Where I write, so the world doesn't end.