Macbeth

Macbeth

Selene smiles down wanly.
Cycle after cycle her orbit never wanes.
She was so beautiful, yet she shines so faintly!
How could she compete with Apollo's fiery mane?

He brushes past her nightly embrace
And await impatiently for the sight of his mighty crown.
Oh, who cares for her dull grace,
When there is his lord's brilliant fold to be sought and found.

But like ignorant Icarus the ignoramus flew harder and harder to get higher and higher,
Eyes on heaven whilst melting wings beat;
And even as she attempted unavailing warning after unavailing warning for cycles after cycles,
Distracted he will not be from his feat.

Above the seas full of sound and fury he weeps,
Neptune gazes poignantly as another regret sinks like an anchor dropped in his realm.
Apollo has the fool in his vise-like grip,
and Selene weeps whilst he looks in vain to her even as pain overwhelms.

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Why is there that nagging feeling that I am in Apolla's wrathful grip rather than his warm embrace? Why is there the feeling that I would rather hug Dumas's works than swirl orange chemicals?