The Moors | Teen Ink

The Moors MAG

January 26, 2023
By Anna_Grace GOLD, New Paltz, New York
Anna_Grace GOLD, New Paltz, New York
16 articles 0 photos 0 comments

For your sake, I must go into a desolate dawn
At the midnight’s wake, on an owl’s back carried on and on
In the mansion’s hell-maze, a tragic tale begun
With a jester’s sleighbell stage and a poet’s lungs
And a still body’s cold, a shaking grave left open,
The last desperate hope of a damned devotion,
Dress of diamonds, voice of honey, is it enough
Wail of sirens, hands still muddy, silver handcuffs

The truth shifts and silence hits, a pact of blue blood,
Taught against my ribs, please believe it was an act of love, my love
A temptress takes the bait, nature takes its course
So twist the hands of fate, so strangle the ropes of war
An angel rises from the ashes, raven hair barely singed,
Every olive branch has a catch, each loss has a win
In nights she flies above, clutching my neck with frozen hands,
A figment, a light, of undying love?, of lust?, of clever plans?

The steel levels at my skull, lips twist into a smile,
The moon settles in a lull, but they still rigged the trial,
Ripped gowns melt into shadows, too parchment soft to leave scars,
But the crowds won’t shove us to the gallows, no one will seize our arms
Garden’s iron walls, secrets taking root in buried hearts,
Until the castle falls, my one, I will stroll hand in hand with you in the dark
A pinprick red handkerchief unspoken, shovels caked in dirt,
A dotted navy ocean, a nail-scratched black hearse.

Wash the ruby away in the sapphire pond, let it float with carnelian koi
The million dollar rug is gone with the stable boy,
Walk away from love, walk without a care, lying roses curl and bloom
Hands in gloves, feet torn and bare, no solace in lips so blue
Ivy pulls me to the ground, tangled in vines
If you walk away I won’t hear a sound, tears dare not be cried
I lay, a heart-of-stone carved statue on the earth’s pillow,
Untouched by the new moon, under a lavender weeping willow,
Cold to the touch, I am paper-blank to the horrors,
At the edge of the bluff, I become mist in the foggy moors.


The author's comments:

The Moors was written after I read Macbeth in tenth grade and found myself wondering about the fascinating character of Lady Macbeth. So, I decided to write a poem from her point of view: why she chooses to stick with her husband, why she helps him cover up his crimes, and why she eventually makes the choice to take her own life.


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