Macbeth’s Owl

In this place, half-urban and half-green
The owl is oft times seen.
Does he lament
The lives misspent
By men
They hear
His too-wit too-woo
Are filled with the ancient fear
That so gripped Macbeth
Of death?

On hearing the bird’s too-wit too-woo
Can deny
That they will die?
Not I.

Some, tis true
On harkening to
The owl’s too-wit too-woo
Think no such thought.
Perhaps I ought
Therefore to ponder
no more
Upon yonder
Yet I
Know that I
Shall die.

You can dress it up as you will
But in the still
Of night,
Oft times out of sight
My friend’s erie cry
Reminds me that I
Shall die.

2 thoughts on “Macbeth’s Owl

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