My Hands Would Never Be Clean Again

I can't rub it off.

The smell,

The audacious smell.

And the blood.

The blood of my guilt,

my cravings, my miseries.

I'm roaming about in the terrace,

The silks of royalty at my feet,

But not a single gem,

Can quench my thirst

Of relief,

Of joy.

Why can't I rub it off?

What is wrong with me?

Why's the smell of my sins

Sticking to my hands

Like venom to a snake?

In vain do I try to

Wash then off

And dim them with

All the perfumes of royalty.

Royalty, did I say?

Not royalty, no.

They are the perfumes of my greed.

My sins, my cravings. 

How will they fade the scent of guilt? How will they stop me from clutching on to the majestic silver weapon,

And slashing it against my venomous skin?

It can't, it can't.

It won't, it won't.

Disclaimer- This piece is a tribute to Lady Macbeth, an original character created by William Shakespeare. The words in my poem are original and my own.