The Fair Ophelia

The fair Ophelia bound
flowers in her hair, whispering
and singing, her dress swished
gently at her ankles, the
stone floor cold against her feet.
Her hands were busy dressing
and unwinding, to twine
the small roses
in her hair.  At that hour
the castle was quiet, the
guards leaned on their swords,
the dogs dozed, and, her
eyes wide with fever, her
mind busy with vacancy
and the dark, her lips formed
soft words of solace and
comfort in the face
of the wide arms of silence.
The water glittered, sun bright
on her hair, the fall
was wide and slow, her gentle
hair swinging in the breeze,
her dress billowing, and the
fall hung in the air
like a bird, but the waters'
arms were deep and velvet,
caressing her skin as she
fell in, and slowly
sank beneath the sight
of day - the song
on her lips stung, and the
start of cold decay and the freeze
as her limbs stiffened
and her feet curled, the small pink
roses leaving her hair to
float to the surface and
bob, like cold flames,
soon to be put out.  Her pale face
rose, senseless, to the
surface and blank eyes
gazed to the sun, the thought
within lost and gone, down
to Hades where the guards
never sleep and the iron gate
clangs each time
a new entrant comes.

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