Friday, June 15, 2012

Ophelia the Willow Bowed

Led on a tawny velvet tuft. Laertes were there a young lad
while she what does she do up by a bit bowed the limp
she towered. Where led the winding crevices may still be
seen a gnarled brain skin under immaculate glass dome.

That the barley bent over her a lunging bulge. They unmet
of purer the ledges and rope slung from a truss. Played she
an enormous mask against the hated bourgeoisie. Yet she
had forget with each is seen from a willow bough a mist

religious. Led that most dark she feel alone. Feel herself
slipping. Should rend her desires into each of us proceeded.
Still spread that can bring us to peace. As of a blank slat
that float at for we too drifted past. Stained the long years

with her drowning. Led as when were a nocturnal bride.
She we mourn in murmurs behind the pulpit pages lit.

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