roils and twists into whirlwinds
that clash against sky.
Helpless figures drown
and gasp, sodden from vengeance's
sour coil. Ships crumble
and tremble; death's shroud
slices through blood; slaves ponder
the wonder chainless
limbs would promise. He,
Prospero, master of the
isle, stares forlorn
at his construction.
The end is forecast, a dance-
dalliance of love
applauded, arranged
by design. The fools of drink
and scheming plots meet
feasts and familiar
faces. Magic's slithery
touch pervades the bright-
dark journey of man's
lost and regained valor. Sleep
is found, kept close, and
cradled - conjures fan-
tastical visions of storms
untempered and stern -
of books shimmering
with a desire to know the
unknowable earth.
Man makes false monsters.
Brother moves against brother,
lovers find love, and
the ache of broken
hearts are mended, made true, soft,
free; and like a dream
the peril has passed by -
nefarious pages packed
away; trickery
grows heavy with peace.
The wind tucks itself into
nooks and crannies, still
and satisfied, in
tree shades. The spirits' bodies
contort into wings
when Ariel's acts
of fancy are retired.
Kings, princes, dukes, slaves
are joined in shared awe
of a victory won-made-
held by a man whose
magic shapes them all.
An unseen crowd crows its glee,
and all fades - complete.
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