and thus Ophelia was interred
poetry bound into her hair
not meant for mortal eyes to see
love’s token for eternity.

yet with death’s dividing scythe
can passion for lost love survive
these offerings gave to her soul
like love and death, grow cold.

he sought her pale and stoney rest
and wrenched his heart from her pale breast
but did his forgotten lover’s rhymes
lose their desire with passing time.

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