I claw at the fringes of life

as the shadow of Ophelia.

The spoilt daughter of Polonius

may have gone insane

but she will never reach the depth

of what my charming existence

has become, the strangled hole

of fantasy, the bitterly guarded memories

she shed as she slips into the water,

Hamlet bound to the end,

in the murky river, knotweed, unheard,

fast flowing thoughts of increasing vanity…

 

She left me by the shoreline in despair

as she lay still and her heavy