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ELSINORE

penned in by
the strictures of
impossible ideology

the wings of
his imagination
bloodied
by their cage

the play’s the thing
for greater conscience
than that of
a King

he knows, and thus
the stage that
was Elsinore
but
a moment before

littered with dead bodies
and the
bouquets of
shock and awe

with which
we leave

the mirror in which
our nature here
displayed

not quite as imagined
not quite
as expected

and yet
that Danish prison

still in our ears
on our tongues

so close to home
as is
disguised

as is
written