It was so
like hamlet
the way I spun and darted
and
had she not been
so mad I would not have
wielded the pointed
edge of a sword
to her neck
against the cries of the wind
and the chorus of innocent birds
who take up residence in the cool pools
of tears,
and:
one year later,
as my comrades lie sleeping
on the tables in the tavern,
soaking in their
sweat and wine
I thought suddenly
of her.
and the wooden doors burst open
running past the streets
which are covered in her locks
and hum the endless sound of her name
which no one
could distinguish
from mine
and whose crime
was kept horribly
still.
Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry
Golden Star Poetry 