'Tis darkness which shines through this window

and Macbeth who stands in its center, glowing like a blood red sun.

Does he not know all can see the blood upon him?

I see it cling to him, not drip like blood should - it hangs thickly

and mars all which he doth lay his hands upon.

Do you not see it upon me, his bloody palm prints?

It all but clothes me, not like sweet red silk

as I had once imagined but as deep dry purple death.

'Twas I that had prepared the King for his fate

but 'twas not I that did seal his fate.

And yet I do hold mine own piece of guilt in these spots upon my hands

I am forced to hold this blood guilt though I ne'er made the blood come forth.

Though I would have had Duncan not resembled my father 'ere he slept

it still remains that my hands have not brought about death.

I ne'er would have stood here in this very spot

and asked for this darkness to unsex and fill me were it not for Macbeth.

My husband warrior for the shadows

which doth hang in spider-web thinness across me.

He had ne'er loved like his heart yearned for this present power.

When presented with this chance he hath leapt upon it

and held me against him in his excitement.

'Twas just that force of his body against mine own which pulled me in.

Evil he did desire and 'twas that evil that I became for his benefit.

Now he stands below and barks his orders leaving me forgotten.

I hath been but a tool of his evil which he now leaves to rust.

"Sir," I hath heard mine good gentlewoman say, "Your lady, she is not well."

And a groan from him as if his bothersome tool

needed more management than he himself cared to provide.

Macbeth hath taken all from me which e'er mattered.

Womanhood hath been betrayed to darkness.

The milk of kindness hath curdled.

Wife, ha! The role coulds't be played as well by a cup of blood red poison.

And so I am nothing now but what Macbeth himself hath molded

so there is no reason for this life

for there is nothing left of my own devise to be.

I close mine eyes against all of these unpleasantries

and will myself to sleep

he will soon find me, but will not care, that I lay dead in a broken heap.