In Scotland’s gloom, where fate is cast,
Macbeth rose high, but not to last.
A prophecy, a whispered lie,
Stirred vaulting dreams that reached the sky.
By dagger’s edge and guilt-stained hand,
He seized the throne, betrayed the land.
His lady urged with ruthless will,
Yet restless hearts are never still.
The blood he spilled cried from the ground,
While ghosts and witches danced around.
From Birnam Wood to Dunsinane,
He faced his doom in cold disdain.
Ambition’s fire, a fleeting breath—
He found his crown was forged in death.
A tyrant lost in cursed regret.
About the Creator
mitty anego
I write whatever drifts into my mind, like clouds passing through the sky.
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