Ophelia, in her sorrow,
   Gone mad by love's own sin,
Felt oppressed and closely dressed,
   Clothed weightily in din.
She cried aloud, she wrung her hands,
   She cursed the thoughts she had.
She died inside as her own heart lied
   Telling her, "Be glad!"

What of gladness? Where's it put?
   When all you've wanted...lost.
What of smiles? What of joy?
   When scraps are all you're tossed?

No, my friends...onlookers, all;
   Safe within your crowd,
Look on again, I say, look on!
   And find what she's endowed.

She's taken the good path, my friends.
   She's done what all she could;
Met all her strife, and loss, and ends
   With all the maddened sorrow she would.

Envy her, my dearest ones;
   Envy her escape.
With all the madness that we wreak,
   Who'd scoff at madness' shape?

(c) Sam Winter, 2015