Hark, the light

It will bring its body in plight

Take the forgings of misery,

Of guilt,

And of madness with its flight

Coos in her ears,

‘With the love of years,

Wed but still full of fears,

What he, the tyrant hears,

Silent to you,

Hidden with the corrupted’

So that she, the demons lady

Will be driven like a restless maiden

She talks,

Talks when dark it is outside

And to no post, she is tied

None but Macbeth,

Who so shamefully revels in death.

Somewhat a mantra, somewhat a prayer,

A string of helpless consolation,

Then be cursed to damnation,

Perhaps for a woman such as she,

The arms of hades are naught but invitation

Perhaps a light she should see,

Beloved and abhorred banshee,

Sewn with the dagger twisted in her gut,

A light in the deepest pit of hell.

Freedom to the sworn king, all hail Malcolm!

Freedom to Scotland, freedom to the people,

And lest we forget- freedom to Lady Macbeth,

Rotted beyond her beauty,

Sounded ‘come, my love, it is time’

To which read out loud as a chime,

Nature born child of Satan

And a slave to asmodeous’ chains,

She comes forth to the burning gate

In more relief than ever to appreciate

That now,

Though standing at the complete mercy of

The devilish arms,

Kneeling with her thane of glamis,

Knows eternal fire to repel the night.