The Scottish Play

It's too late to be awake. 

Devastation crawls in the wake 

of everything. 

My eyes are burning 

physically, actually 

in no poetic manner 

my eyes are burning with 

the after smoke of tears. 

I will sleep, exhaustion does prevail 

but how will I live tomorrow? 

How will I make like Macbeth 

and tomorrow 

and tomorrow and tomorrow 

because Dunsinane is already here.  

The forest is here, the soldiers are here 

the King is dead 

and a tyrant rules on the throne. 

What a day, 

what a night, 

what a spot that will not get out. 

Out, damned spot! Out, I say! 

It will not get out, the bloody red. 

Maybe I will make like Lady Macbeth 

and ruin myself 

with heartbreak. 

Yet who would have thought the old man 
to have had so much blood in him. 

She died. He died. 

May we survive tomorrow 

and tomorrow 

and tomorrow.