Burning daylight to save her soul from pain;

          the sputtering candle,

whose brief outing casts light in vain.

This strutting player now no longer sees

          the need for havoc wreaked

to wreath in Dunsinane trees

the gloomy portents she chooses to ignore;

          no direst cruelty needs

to walk through that forseen door,

no crone's prophecy bleeds dry the heart

          when reluctant feet and fear

steal freedom, instill false start.

Can't remove that damned and bloody spot;

          the guilt of things undone,

loose hereafter strands inducing rot.

None must the suffered lady witness

          her plot to downfall hidden,

daggering her distress.

And finally to sit that hated throne

          secure her father's fate;

to die afraid, cold and alone.

◄ Writer's Block

Title revision in progress! ►


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Tue 25th Jan 2011 00:14

Yes the metaphoric stain of guilt which is the blood of all our consciences 'daggering distress' enjoyed the plot

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Patricia and Stefan Wilde

Sun 23rd Jan 2011 22:37

ah yes-your reply has made the point-the one I aint gonna sit on...argh! lol! ta lots.

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Patricia and Stefan Wilde

Sun 23rd Jan 2011 20:52

love love love this poem-one teeny tiny correction(usual typo we all commit)'and finally to sit-on-that hated throne? ta Petrova lovely work! Stef.x

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