Macbeth Hath Murdered Sleep

 MacBeth hath murdered vision,

for he can see only his reasons,

whatever in the world justifies

what he has done: in a rainbow,

inevitable disillusion; in sex,

the hectic twitching of decaying flesh;

in life, all life, a disposable litter,

dead leaves disturbed by a cold wind;

in priestly teachings the mockery

of mangy crows conversing

among gnarled winter branches.

MacBeth hath murdered memory,

for he has put into the world

much he prefers not to know:

that one much like himself

can be a corpse, a nothing;

that one even more like himself

can be a monster; that dreams

of greatness can end

in what he now is.

MacBeth hath murdered imagination,

for to do what he has done and now must do,

requires the consolation of not knowing

that in others dwell ones like himself

or like what he once was, one with hopes,

dreams, people he cared for. It is

a leap of imagination to say “Hello”

and mean it. He can say it, but can

no longer mean it, for it is uncomfortable

to be there to say it or to imagine

anyone exists to receive it.

The universe demands compensation:

Having deprived it of willing awareness

(his own and that of those he has overwhelmed),

he must supply an unending compulsive wakefulness,

if only to his nightmares.  MacBeth

hath murdered sleep.

Having deprived it of lucid memories,

he must be hounded by vivid fragments

of what he would not see, their jaggedness

unsoftened by understanding. MacBeth

hath murdered sleep.

Having deprived it of an alertness

to what cannot be seen, the spiritual existence

of himself and others, he is lost

entirely in visions others cannot see:

MacBeth hath murdered sleep.

He hopes death will give him rest,

but he is already dead, yet sleepless,

having murdered sleep.