Tears of Macbeth

The sin.
The somber neon lights of the sleeping city draw my shadow against the wall in hazy unfamiliar lines. Footsteps echo trough the dormant streets like a memory of a lost life, fading into the darkness like cigarette smoke in the serene night air. Only the cold solid pavement has witnessed the brutality of my sore vendetta. My incoherent thoughts garrote my sense of justice and right. Blinded by my own lust for retribution I'm left broken and lame. This is not what was promised! I thought I'd stand before you a king! I present the now bloody dagger and carve my chest the mark of Cain. Every now and then a passing light slits the street and disappears into the urban columns leaving me gasping for air in pain.

The tears.
At first only one, but the burden grows with every teardrop I keep. Raindrops shape the city gray and corrupt the sullen view. I cry like a child. The sole dreary figure in the ambience of a black city, the mournful rain, a new world.