Ophelia;
She walks clenching a knife,
unto her pale and cold bosom.
Her wet night gown dragging,
pulling weeds behind her.
Her hair mangled
and dark, polluted with water.
She holds the knife tighter,
knuckles turning white around the blade.
She walks through scarcely remembered
corridors, of a once familiar place.
She aprroaches a familiar looking door,
oak with cast iron handle.
She caresses the handle,
remebering times of happiness,
until sadness is cast upon her.
She flings the door open,
lurching in.
Brandishing blade at hated foe,
mother, father, husband, mirror,
whichever may be inside.
She stabs, and stabs again,
until they are dead.
