Butterfly Ripples

Death of the Poet, Mercutio

In this, my last hour of rhyme,

with stains uncontainèd by shaking hands

Spreading like red soldiers running wartime

untempered by generals shouting commands

Then laughing like drunkards, drowning in wine

that rich purple spills out from its barrels

Then lying on bartops, eyes shine porcine

and unheard soft voices hiss curses and carols.

O, woe be on me if I speak out of time;

out-tumbling come innards, spewed from a mouth

Which whispered sad prayers in corners of grime:

hints of spring-season on trips to the south;

Watch them out-tumble, watch horri-divine

like the death of the tragic, acted but true

Yet laughing old minstrels declare it quite fine:

and friends ensure royal-men breathe not from the blue.

Hours fly past on wings of the Sun

who turns misted eyes from child-fight below

And lives lives of many, but cares not for none

not least merchant servants, throttled in the snow.

I fade and I fade: a blossom once watered

and love of the stage is clogging my throat

It changes my words: I fight it, I fought it

and hot-wet floods up with drowning and choke.

This minute, these words: I defy death.

And cold, outward slipping: my slow final breath.