I see people,
People intoxicated by the pictures and paintings of Ophelia's
Flowery death.
Her death image gives them aesthetic pleasure,
As controlled women always gave them.
Her hairs afloat, start to sleep on to the water,
Flowers shrouding her body,
Eyes open to a world of her own,
Singing songs of despair.
But little did she realize the danger,
The danger of clinging on to a hopeless end,
Like the bough that broke beneath her.
She was beneath the procrastinated love,
That demanded her to leave for a nunnery,
Where she could have grown out of love,
Leaving a dull yet moving life in her,
Under the orders of others.
Little did she understand the fleeting
Feelings inside men,
The constant tribulations of mind,
That demand their essence and
Drink off the sanity.
She mistook the words and its soul,
She made her life revolve around one improper love,
She didn't realize the wonders in life beyond romantic love,
Or no one helped her.
Deaths made her mourn,
It took over her fragile mind,
Making garlands of wildflowers,
Climbing into a willow tree,
She left her soul in the tree
And made her body floating in the water,
To be the talk of the country,
To teach young girls of love and chained lives.
Yet her silk garments trapped air to stay afloat,
But her body decided to sink,
Deep down,
Turning herself an image for
Fighter of dignity,
And a symbol of women lost in social chains.
Oh, Ophelia, these are your mistakes.
A. C
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