The Taste of Cruelty (poem)

"... Come, you spirits
That feed on mortal thoughts ...
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full
Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood,
Stop up th'access and passage to remorse;
That no compunctious visitings of Nature
Shake my fell purpose..."

— Lady Macbeth,
The Tragedy of MacBeth
 I.v, 40-46

*

Nature: are the two of us destined
To be apart forever? Or will we
Pool together like brain and skull,
Cause excitement and blast the dull?
I am numb. Anger has a hold of me.
Many years in the making and yet impatient:
How hard must a man work to earn his keep?
It would make a lesser man weep,
But I only clench and feel white knuckles
Hiss at the error in front of me. Again.
I repeat the self-same question
With no less passion, nor new inflection:
What must a man do? ———
You tell me, second guess, that my principles
Are too strict and thus make me Quixotic!
No. A dreamer is as real as death; likely more,
And I have come too far just to ignore
The absurdities of the world as is.
I do not care, nor will I ever
Not unleash the power you waste, together,
For I would not quiet even if I were able.
It is time for me to eat at cruelty's table.