macbeth

The Scottish hills are filled

with the wild turbulence

of wind and of spirit,

of storm and of thunder.

From my hands drip

the redness of royalty,

and the bloodstains of kings

cannot be scrubbed

from my dreams.

In the mist play the visions

of glory and fate,

and for prophesies

from beyond

no man, forest, or army

can stand to wait.

A nation crumbles to entropy

at the hands of a tyrant

and his love

with a ghost in his throne and three silhoutted shadows.

Stars, hide your fires.

Blood was never shed.

Secrets in every breath.

To bed, to bed...