How Macbeth rings in sync with my mind lies beyond my grasp,

a fictitious madman reeking of guilt at spilled blood,

whilst I lay in rest at night wondering if I am awash

with the blood of my mistakes,

my only wound a broken sanity,

oh how old and broken my soul is.

I cannot help but wonder how my thoughts ring true

through the pen of Shakespeare,

a backwards prediction of events now unfolding,

mad boy kills father, boy killed, cut.

Final scene.

Grim lovers, fates intertwined, destinies wrapped like vines

around the neck of a bottle on Juliet's upturned lips

a dance on the blade of a knife ends in misstep,

and the life of lost love crumbles.

Insanity does a dive into death,

self-harm a bridge leading to lives abridged,

but this is not the cliffhanger

I want blossoming from this throat,

I wish worlds of words, a conflagration of divine syllables

crashing through nerve cells mutilated cast into iron cells,

bars barring words, battered and broken beat brains back

to crazy like a chicken beheaded,

for they cannot escape, driven to madness by voices spoken

ever in a whisper, kept quiet by the passerby

who wonders if they are to call the cops

when I reply into silent air.