An Ode to My Sanity

Something I inherited but will not pass on
is knowing there is an absence of affliction;
the madness of the wife of Agamemnon.
An assumption that is long overdue eviction

They believe they are the murdered, not the murderer.
They are Agamemnon, daughter sacrificer for the Gods,
their wrong is for a purpose, to avenge a war
I am Clytemnestra, husband sacrificer for a daughter.

Mad are they, in denial, I have dropped the facades.
My wrong is for a purpose, an entombed womb to pay for.

Mad am I, in denial no more, with blood soaked hands
that will not be clean for the damned spots remain.
Insanity, they claim, as if they are not to blame
As if they, Macbeth, did not kill themselves the lamb

Lady Macbeth, am I, who dared to be a queen
she held no blood, moved no precious sanctity
still she remembers a life in her palm, out the spot won't get.
Macbeth, are they, whose nails pretend to be clean

though Duncan's blood was their humanity
lost in the knife that made their debt.

They are as sick in the head as I,
Agamemnon comes home to a spear, Macbeth returns to a death
and yet they wonder why
I won't forget the sickness in our breath.

Here comes the Dunsinane,
Here comes the end of Troy,
They will not admit their sick,
the definition of insane

I will not fall victim to this ploy
this denial is archaic.