Lady Macbeth

Lady Macbeth, married to a man of power,
With porcelain skin, she sits in a cold stone tower.
Her heart, which failed to bloom like a lifeless flower.
A tainted heart, where good could not be found,
Suddenly the guilt began to pound.
She climbed the stairs, with hands as cold as her heart
As thoughts rushed through her cruel, guilty mind.
The wind thrashed furiously through her long dark hair,
She looked over the edge at the long fall beneath her.
Her foot grazed the hard ground as she stepped over,
Shakily she gripped the railing, breathing at a uneven pace and
The tears stain her face.
She mourns for a life lost to greed,
Her husband’s prophecy she wanted to heed.
If only those three witches hadn’t planted the seed,
Then all those deaths before her, would not have been her deed.

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