Its too late to be awake.
Devastation crawls in the wake
of everything.
My eyes are burning
physically, actually
in no poetic manner
my eyes are burning with
the after smoke of tears.
I will sleep, exhaustion does prevail
but how will I live tomorrow?
How will I make like Macbeth
and tomorrow
and tomorrow and tomorrow
because Dunsinane is already here
The forest is here, the soldiers are here
the King is dead
and a tyrant rules on the throne
What a day,
what a night
what a spot that will not get out
Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
It will not get out, the bloody red
Maybe I will make like Lady Macbeth
and ruin myself
with heartbreak.
Yet who would have thought the old man
to have had so much blood in him.
She died. He died.
May we survive tomorrow
and tomorrow
and tomorrow.
Posted in response to the challenge Post-Election.
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