she glides in the still pool,

her golden locks spilled in water

half hides her face.

a work of renaissance art

porcelain skin,

scintillating under the light of the night

the cold she felt within is reflected on her lips, blue

for she kissed not a mortal but an ivy before parting.

they say she was mad

never asked why?

she longed for sanity

not that she didn’t try.

dejected by love, rejected by mirth

the faces she met always cold and wry.

no more in conflict with herself

she sleeps in eternal peace.

the nightingale sings the dirge,

she wears the shroud of the night breeze.

the heaven weeps,

long spells of rain.

and in the distance

the church bell chimes.

© Wordpolitics

22 thoughts on “Ophelia

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