Macbeth

Macbeth poem

A thane of cawdor,
warrior of kings.
Dreams of more,
tempting his greed.

Three sisters,
spun tales of what to come.
deceiving, guiding,
to fate ticked the bomb.

His love did wail,
and did sacrifice,
herself and her life,
forcing them into a vice.

She pushed him,
guided him,
pulled his strings.

She fought him,
degraded him,
fueled his greed.

His hand was guided,
the blade unfought.
The blood spilled forth,
blinding their sight.

Nothing was at it seemed,
and fate was turning its hand.
They did not see the trap,
mice in a bind.

And they dug deeper,
turning the knife onto their own.
A dozen lashes on his face,
his death no longer prolonged.

The son flew,
he hid untouched.
But the knife moved to another,
filling the river of blood.

A castle was cleared,
blood flooded the lands.
Those in england,
returned, a thousand in command.

He stood alone,
fighting a forest of rage.
Vines pulling deeper,
trapped in a cage.

There he died,
King, Thane, Tyrant.
His fate showed its hand,
Death to the evil, the devil in command.

-Steven French