MOHIT MITRA Poet Free verse

RICHARD III

Crook-born of womb,        I clasped  
          the night—  
for tongue;  
When peace in silken sloth  
          lay drowsed,  
I leapt—  

In smiles I prayed, in honeyed oaths  
          I wrung  
      the marrow dry;  
each truth I piled—  
          and kept.  

The law I read where blood  
          and bone conspire;  
My conscience draped  
      in livery of guile.  
Each brother’s breath—  
          a stepping fire;  
The crown grew bright  
          for every darkened mile.  

O Tower! hush’d, thy stones did mark  
          my tread;  
The princes slept,  
          unknowing of my art.  
Yet ghosts—like sharpened debts—  
          arose and bled,  
And named aloud  
          the reckonings  
                    of my heart.  

I kissed sweet words till innocence  
          lay slain;  
I schooled the night to bend—  
          and call it day.  
Desire I taught to wear  
          a saintly chain;  
And Fate itself  
          did nod  
                    where reason lay.  

The realm conspired with sense  
          I forged to lie;  
Coherence served  
          where mercy might have dwelt.  
Each cause I placed, each consequence  
          did spy;  
The angels paused  
          to hear how steel was felt.  

Yet debts keep tryst  
          beyond the mortal ear;  
They rise in armor,  
          calling tally due.  
At Bosworth churn, the sod denied  
          my steer;  
My horse, my hope—  
          sunk down  
                    in honest rue.  

Language quaked  
          beneath my cunning hand;  
My syllables fell thin—  
          their edges frayed.  
The mirror spoke,  
          the marrow made its stand,  
And showed the price that mortal guile  
          had paid.  

I taught my will  
          to wear the face of Heaven;  
I made my crimes  
          resound as Providence.  
The crown was won;  
          the soul by hell was riven;  
Fate casts no coin it  
          doth not recompense.  

Mark me: not fiend, nor wit,  
          nor stage’s jest,  
But proof how sense  
          may varnish sin’s intent.  
I named my path as Fate,  
          and would not rest—  
Till Fate replied  
          from voids  
                    of firmament.  

O hear, ye heirs of men,  
          ye trembling seed:  
Ambition, when it sings,  
          is sharper than sword.  
Reason may walk,  
          yet still it will bleed,  
And guile shall rise  
          to crown itself a lord.  

I am the crooked king  
          who made the hour  
A furnace where all virtue  
          burned to ash.  
The world itself bent, trembling,  
          to my power;  
Yet Fate unmade  
          my empire  
                    with one crash.  

Remember me—  
          in marrow, bone,  
          and breath;  
As proof that cunning walks  
          with death in hand.  
The crown is won;  
          the soul is sold to death;  
All men shall quake  
          where I once  
                    made my stand.

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