Ophelia by Jaylah Easter

“He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his

heels a stone.” (IV.V.XXX)

The warm whisper of a melody winds through the air, escaping like the last embers of

an abandoned fire

From the chilled lips of crippled innocence flows the omen of foretold sleep
Up she goes, wracked with the weight of a sort of neglected recklessness, heavy
To braid-to weave-to intertwine; to speak through those which so romantically offer life

and beseech upon death

Go silently; succumb to the suffocation of the mouth and the suppression of the mind
The ferality of consciousness, the human abyss, danker than the lure of the murky

water

The salt of remorseful tears tastes blue, stains blue; to reduce the righteous to such

self-destructive and cruel impotence

Hamlet, by none but one will he be vexed, forsaken much as the beauty of fair Ophelia
Laertes, he will cry deepest sorrow, as though to thee too belonged a heart melancholy

Father, he will look and he will be–ahead, him, look there and see!
Be it the tale of corrupted virtue, of stained purity, of demoralized chastity; the tale of

tainted truth, of luckless love, and of unseen nobility

Be it the tale of
Ophelia.

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