Macbeth

Sword gripped, in an iron hand.
Heaven glanced and eyes cast skyward.
Rust covers the jagged land,
and distant crows sound high
above the realm of men.

The final blow of the battle made.
The final man slayed,
and breath exhaled.
The last bead of sweat
and taste of mud.
The last lick of blood.

The armour wrecked,
like the straw hair.
There is nothing here, or there, or anywhere.
A dark red sky grips a dark red sun.
The end is over.
All is done.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.