Her hair still perfectly poised and

My Fair Ophelia,

That tear that trembles down a heavy toll is

No more.

Sleep, dear, within your flowers and dream

For what comes of you now? Peace lay delicately masked.

Softly soaked hands still intertwined with the thorn abreast,

Stinging, dull ache, what is left of you.

Weeds wrapped round fragile ankles, sink into the murky sand

Your flower crown tumbled when

You splashed in the sensation-

Sweet release,

A ripple of Lilies and white roses

Strewn across the water

Pain no more

Evermore.