No man born of woman can slain you...
Then why are you fearful of death?
The Devil himself has proclaimed you
As king hereafter, Macbeth.
The pedestal hungers your feet,
The earth has no need for them back
But, the dread conceived by your deed,
Commands your hands to attack.
The blood is washed off once again;
All has been cleaned but one spot.
And no perfume can sweeten the hand
Which retains the smell of the blood.
Your fear has become too unnerving
In its depth you are quickly enthralled.
Dare you call the glory deserving
Of the stain that you wear on your soul?
[This message has been edited by Master (edited 12-02-1999).]