Witch Talk (Poetry)

He is a fool — this Thane of Glamis come
to question and take counsel with we three,
proved so naïve — the man is deaf and dumb
to all but what he wants to hear and see
how words are wound in riddles, and the smell
of foulness makes him tremble at our spell.

He thinks we work for him — manipulate
our magicks — stir our secrets in a pot
to charm the world and guarantee his fate
and never for one moment dreams his lot
is of no consequence — he’s unaware
our plans are otherwise — we do not care

if he should die — so what? The omens lend
a wide interpretation — storm and rain —
and every stone, when turned, as runes portend
might indicate some action, then again
in contradiction say, with meaning sly —
’tis best to let the dog that’s sleeping lie.

He gains no answers — merely hints and clues
and he imagines that he understands
their cryptic nature — sure he cannot lose
while we indulge his tedious demands
for guidance — while, thrice cursed, the name Macbeth
deludes him — he is blind to coming death.