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  • Unlike the three witches

    Ubbling, bubbling

    Toiling, troubling,

    Geysers of steam

    From lakes afire

    Erupt from hidden orifices

    Unable to relieve the pressure

    That builds and builds and builds

    Within the sulphur of my soul

    Stinking like eggs gone over

    Repulsing onlookers.

    I delve deep within the cauldron

    To find the worst of my fallen nature

    A living creature in an earthly hell.

    An inner voice

    Plays the serpentine role.

    Come eat, come eat.

    Should I resist temptation?

    Rebuke the call?

    I am not Christ in the wilderness

    And so I sate my hunger and

    The veil of half-hearted evil

    Is lifted to show

    The putrid inner-workings

    Of a rotting woman.

    Death begets death

    And blood does not wash away

    From hands stained long ago.

    Like the ambitious

    But weak-willed MacBeth,

    I am a story in

    Someone else's past,

    Told by an idiot,

    Full of sound and fury,

    Signifying nothing.
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