OPHELIA.

Bury me in a bed of rue and rosemary and

Remember me.

Have mercy on these Christian souls

And mine.

These are the ending minutes and I,

A sweet-savage blow.

If I give away my heart splintered, will you scorn it back?

If I tell you the direction in which it yearns, will you change it?

Will you all be otherwise to my wishes?

That overflow inside of me so contrary to all.

So I diminish it.

In your grief I am a casualty wounded.

But- this touch of pity swells in torn heart.

So I pursue and continue to try to heal you.

Until you beat me further back and bruise me with salted words.

And he is dead and gone. And he is dead and gone and I-

Grief stricken now, bow my head in the horror.

Path lost and I try to weave conscious sense.

Mad, you name me, and woe is me.

But I, even lost in my loss, am no mad beauty.

No canvas blank for this world's distemper.

Let me have this final will.