ophelia | Golden Star Poetry

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.