Ophelia's Garden

Jagged red leaves
crawl like dead hands
through her window at night,
when the world is dark
and the moon is alive,
but she does not notice.
She sings Scarborough Fair
as the wind chimes collide:
a spell for the loveless.
She is far away.

She waters her roses
in the midnight rain,
the cold streaming down her arms,
her white fingers.
The vines of her lost garden
snake around her neck,
but she does not notice.
Hungry creepers and tendrils
whisper secrets of the wind
and entwine with her brain.
She is far away.

When the grey river beckons
in the frozen morning,
she is the first to listen.
Singing rhymes of lost love
and loverless madness,
she does not notice
as the heavy waters cloak her.
Her lungs spasm gently, then cease.
The sightless worms gather
to feed by the rose gardens
beneath her pale skin.