Shakespeare, why have you cursed our namesakes?
Lovers propped on stage.
Earmarked to perform unbecoming at the stake.
until audiences learn to bleed— palms engaged.
My body, a mayhemed witness of his fictitious death.
Masses ransack terror from our faces,
pocketing it for scarecrow drab and burnt breaths.
Despite my gown unraveling— haunted laces.
Brazier of rattling claps.
Empty winged curtain call.
Crimson stains outlive his hands and knee caps.
Cacklers heave him past my bawls.
So, I hunt for him.
Willing to lose my mind and limbs.
Kelli Lage is a poetry reader for Bracken Magazine and Best of the Net nominated poet. Lage’s work has appeared in Maudlin House, The Lumiere Review, Welter Journal, and elsewhere. Website: www.KelliLage.com.