The Disease Of Lady Macbeth.

I’m confused. Bewildered. Dazed.

This woman has a disease like no other,

A poison that infects the mind, then leisurely drips into the soul.

It yanks boundlessly at the heart and sends waves of horror,

Of black and of sorrow through the bloodstream.

A sickness that torments mercilessly,

before the one unfortunate enough to have seen face to face with it,

gives in to its control.

The candle burns, as does her reality.

The reality that was destroyed,

shattered by the woman’s own perilous desires and malicious thoughts.

Her eyes are open, but little do they see.

Her feet walking, but little do they feel.

They are frozen by the clasp of the inescapable, of the impenetrable.

Of guilt.

All that is left is a dim, hidden stain that is imposed on the cold flesh of the woman.

It has become part of her, inscribed into her skin and carved into her heart.

Even if every second, every minute was spent washing the stain,

it would not remove.

For it drips deep into the mind, and tortures its victim.

That is, until its clasp steals the breath and finally plunges,

until all life has disappeared.

Until this woman’s life will disappear.