Lear And One Lesser Poem by William Coyne

No Lear, mad from ungrateful children's
serpentine hisses,
am I, sad from my long uncaring kin's
welcoming kisses.

HOWL! Yet I shall
from the tar pits of self pity's hell,
tear my heart from my breast,
and stab at it as if stabbing were a blessing
to bestow after the stoning rocks are thrown!

What mongrel thing hides in our bosom?
What cracking, bleeding, ugly parasite?
Succubus! You foul thing!
Driving mad an aging king,
and little me to weep alone.

Lear sought not to end his suffering in death.
He raged and raged until he was out of breath,
falling to his knees in storm, wind, and rain,
to rise, broken, but once more noble again.

And me, I crawl out from self pity's pit,
and struggle to profit the best from it.
Stitching my heart with coarse and fraying thread,
hoping it beats on, and forgives me, instead.