Ophelia’s flowers have gone.
Broken, faded, her smile is twisted, she sings a mad bird’s song.
“Oh my love, oh my day, come and take my life away. I’ve waited under this wretched moon, and now the cold dark calls so soon.
I’ll go floating, my stern upended, flowers strewn and love suspended
under the willow tree I talked of so; now, sweet fawn, feels long ago.”
She glides across the empty stage, oblivious in her maddened haze
“Don’t you love to hear midnight laugh?”
Her own falls out twinkling, a sound as daft
For the midnight she sees, leering down in her dreams
Flying, humming, twirling around the room, she stops.
It might be over soon.
Gentle and modern, choked up and sodden
She’s broken her
(Chissit, chassit)
Brown woven basket
Petals scatter to the floor
And Ophelia doesn’t smile anymore.
Woolgathering 
Beautiful
LikeLiked by 1 person