107.

You don’t have to be Richard the Third

To have night terrors: the wound of guilt,

Hurt, death calls on all of us, even those

Who seem to believe the advertising.

What shadows cut our minds at night

And shake our days with the sweet heat

Of hidden ice? Hell is here, not just

For monsters and fallen angels. It haunts

The light on the fields, the trenches of then

And now. The tyrants there and within threaten

The good we were born to. Slogans

Are hidden tales, various as our desires.

Perhaps there’s a history of love without Sade

And Richard’s rape of Anne in the Abbey.