‘What visceral growl makes din this late hour?
T’is not merely the storm, though it brews worse.
Is this Cordell, first-born, flexing power?
Ingratitude! Thou most vile fiend be cursed.
Eager to usurp what’s near enough yours.
Impatient youth, can you not wait to rule?
This gale’s howls drowned by loud pounds at our door,
Such a night pities neither wise man nor fools.’
The old king rose regally from his seat,
‘This burns so hotly in my heart and gut,
Now here too soon stands the son I must meet,
When wrathful sighs argue his path be shut.’
“My regrets sir, I’d been calm had I known,
Ah, this aged house has need of two thrones.”

Copyright 2001 Paul Heno