The Conscience of a King

The Conscience of a King
Christopher Bogart

There sometimes seems to be little difference between choice and fate.

The beat of our heart is not chosen.
Like a well-oiled machine, it chugs along
until, one day, it just ceases and desists.

But, is fate choice or just the preordained?

Do three ancient sisters really sit,
surrounded by flax and wool,
and finagle our future?
Does Clothos create the cord by spinning lifelines into being?
Does Lachesis weave these lifelines into whole fabric,
in a tapestry of life, of love, of loss and pain?
And, at the end, does Atropos finally cut that cord
And hurl us into dark oblivion?

If Macbeth, the Thane of Glamis, just listened
to the predictions of the Sisters on the heath
and went on home,
kissed the Mrs. on the head,
and sat and ate
his daily bread, his haggis
and gulped his grog,
would the fog have cleared on the heath that night,
and what was meant to be,
Just be?
Would one day Macbeth be king anyway?

Who knows?

I guess I understand well
the consequence of choice, but
I must confess,
I haven’t the slightest idea
of the workings of fate or
what catches the conscience of a future king.