Monday, October 17, 2011

Examining Ophelia

Examining Ophelia by shivasarms43
Examining Ophelia, a photo by shivasarms43 on Flickr.

On hands and knees I’d crawl into his mind at the wrong time, just as he was drifting off (perchance) to dream. He’d slap his forehead, and shake his fists as if he was the only one enslaved, but he'd rise and light the candle for me. Circles of light paled the pen, signal and symbol, and the velvet curtain rose like some bird above the stage in his brain. He'd push me down between folds of parchment again, creasing me with his ravaged nib, filling me in, molding me into something I was not. In the morning, I'd feel grateful for the ink stains smearing reality revised to cast me in his image. A soliloquy in a pocket, the dance of another un-smooth course would have driven any muse mad.
There are ghosts afoot tonight, and under glass the old story looms large, as tangled as the weeds in my waterlogged hair.

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