Ophelia: the drug.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Is it the beginning of the end?

Submitted: October 17, 2011

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Submitted: October 17, 2011

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It was a cold, cold January evening;
the winds were screaming ferociously.
The Rain crashes and pounds as it filters through
whilst the Sunshine is trapped beneath the
diameter of the silver stainless steel sieve.
Ophelia: an elegant female with purity features
and glossy, coal as black hair staggers
uncontrollably into the deep and black woods.
The trees align the perforated surface like
sardines contained in a compact container
and are observing Ophelia's obscure behaviour.
The crows proclaims: 'Hell hath no fury
like a woman scorned' as bloodshot eyes
devour the porcelain and gentle visage as
the poison saturates the 'chambers of secrets'.
Ophelia is alone. The shadows hallucinate as
the torch light in the distant flickers,
flickers and magnifying Ophelia's shadow
causing paranoia in the process.
There is a noise. A high pitch noise.
Like a scream that has been composed in a
claustrophobic room and echoed with an
almighty sucker punch. Where is this noise?.
The noise has not been replicated. There
is silence. Silence is diluted within the opaque.
Fear has now engulfed Ophelia's once purity
reflection, as her broken brogues disintegrates
as the poison consumes the shoes like a snake
annihilating its innocent prey. Her clothes -
a second hand cardigan, plain cream vest and
broken jeans all resembled car crash television.
In juxtaposition of the rosy cheeks and demure
that was painted on her personal canvas.
She creeps gingerly inches nearer and nearer
as the shadows become less and less distorted.
The receptors have awoken: on red alert
clawing, gripping and pinching the walls like
a pestilent child in their formative years.
Itching away to uncover unequal balance
like scales that carries too much heavy luggage.
But, there is now isolation. Ophelia is trapped.
She stumbles into the dark, trapped by the
unforgiving maze with no finish line in sight!
Every turn resembles a rut and every turn
resembles an extra step within the puzzle.
There is no salvation. There is no resurrection...

 


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