Michael Whelan Style, Alcohol Ink, Mixed Media, Macbeth and the Weird Sisters

Beneath the forest's dim canopy, Macbeth, a king in dreams, not crowns, did stand.

Whispers, like ravens on an iron wind, carried a prophecy, a blood stained hand.

Thane of Cawdor, hailed, a chilling rhyme, echoed in his mind, a serpent's chime.

"If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me," he mused, ambition's flame a flickering torch.

His Lady, eyes like steely stars, whispered words that fate's grim tapestry would scorch.

"Fate's fickle finger points, why linger still? Seize power's crown, and bend fate's will."

Guilt clawed, a monstrous beast within, while doubt, a shadow, danced on reason's wall. He saw a crown stained crimson, heard a kingdom weep, yet felt ambition's call. His gaze, a storm tossed sea, mirrored his soul, where light and darkness did forever roll.

Three weird sisters over cauldrons bubble did prophecy of toil and trouble, only darkness would triumph in these dark times, crones betiding of darkest deeds.