Monday, June 11, 2012
Try as he could
He could not wash away the blood stains
His hands remained crimson red
He turned on the hot water.
He'd done it hundreds of times
This couldn't be any different
Bar after bar of soap lathering into the sink.
Was he hallucinating?
Tired and spent, he slid into his room
Surely, after a nap, it would all be gone
Must prepare for tomorrow.
The baby voices came through the night
Shrill, distinct, eerie
They laughed; their chatter hounding him
He clutched his sheets.
"What do you want?" He asked
They continued to haunt him
Waking up, his body drenched with sweat
A new day, he had a decision to make.
Out, damned spot! Out, I say! ~Lady Macbeth.