I Believe In Shakespeare: The Man From Stratford, The Bard, The Wit Poem by Aaron Graham

In the aftermath, the storm finds its rest
Ariel, still bound to his timeless post
Mouthing a demotic broken angelus.
No more can I do with language, but lust.

Much of your language I learned, detest!
Shackles’ frail, frame me the weaker, and engross,
Monumental ambitions cleaved just Pyrrhus,
As a man: bound to drift as dust, after time: dust.

Still I have all than man may will.
Will, I drive until will begets the wrack.
Of vengeance, retributions, birthed the Italianate.
Sundered against stones’ learned mercy in time.

Only mercy’s forgiveness can hell’s tempest still.
Saving the condemned saves revenger in kind’s lack
And so doubles reflections: sibylline masques prostrate
Full five fathoms deep. splintered staff his knells chime.

The spell diffused in an airy elemental song.
These rocks also crumble. Leaving dust: grinds
Smooth pearls perfection from once sinful eyes.
Morose, macabre atrophy: so coral see change

Eructation of what evil there remains.
Wit spins, turning the fool. Whose wit defines
Rebirth: Death. But: Me thinks this lady is my child.
before barbarous kingdom perverse ravish, enforced.

Natural order of earth: lechery. Unnatural my magic wanes.
I leave a legacy in the dust that be entombed there.
While numerous Imperfections purging pangs, never mild.
Lest intercession may loose my incorporeal snare

And mercy resolve this eternal affair.
Not ever denying just rite disdains
Until the tempest-base-passion tames
Man is but foul. and foul is fair.

Look but again and all’s slipped into air.