She was not Dido, nor was she Juliet;
Ophelia's opulent retreat
set to her own grand death song was
an affront to her taste.
She preferred a soundless exit, weary
of pretense of strength
and worth, of hoping against hope that
the act would bring forth shades
of all she so fervently wished were true.
Yes, it did lend her inutile motion grace,
a semblance of life, though
the serene light of a silent death glowed
in her eyes; the comfort of a
spectral tide's whelming buoyed her up,
its wordless pledge her sole
egress from barren spaces thick with
empty spirants and sightless souls.
Still, she left her smile upon every flower,
at times insensible of her
superfluousness. Earth wears them now;
She would not spurn what
to human eyes seemed flawed, wanting.
Go forth, my beloved sister, into the one
Garden where Spring forever
reigns, into the sole refuge that awaits all
with fragrant arms outstretched.
© 2015 Lily's Verse
Image: YOUNG WOMAN WITH A DOVE
Artist: Charles Joshua Chaplin