Innocence Lost

Your ridges, your deep crested valleys, Invite the lonely traveller, To reach his hand out – to stop. He inhales, breathes deep, and the earth shivers, The sky claps, the oceans sigh. May he marvel at you, your Rogue crested plates, your sloping eaves Your tightly wound core. In these valleys, flushed bright with swathes of red, You tempt him further. You ooze crimson, fields of velvet. May he sit on a cliff’s edge Just to gaze in wonder. He meanders downhill, eyes ablaze, No longer on the edge he indulges himself: He wraps himself in you. Cocooned in your flesh, blankets seeping, He fills his lungs, the red tickling, caressing. In the moon – awake? Dreaming? – He travels further still. The moon slumps, the wolf howls and the fields And the valleys relent. New ground paves way, unfamiliar, dark. He has fallen, lies trapped on a protruding rock. He lies beneath the canopy, the interlocked weaves of red. You have set the sky ablaze, So he sits gazing upward, Desperate just to singe his hand on you, To allow the flames to lick him, To melt into your fire.

I called them constellations.

Coriolanus:

Richard III:

Macbeth:

Iago:

Regan:

Falstaff:

Posthumus:

Isabella:

 Lady Macbeth:

Benvolio:

Puck:

Hermia:

King Lear:

Part II