Ophelia
She was taken away from me,
At such a young age,
We were just newlyweds,
When she fell deathly ill,
To an unknown sickness.
The doctors could do nothing,
But hope that the sickness would pass,
Each day; she grew frailer and sicker,
Till the sickness consumed her,
And she no longer could hold on,
And passed on that fateful night.
Till this day I still hear her,
Begging me between coughs,
To stop smothering her with her pillow,
Watching her squirm weakly,
Until she layed limp,
My hands were once so gentle,
Now that of a murderer.
I felt her heart give way,
Heard one last word,
Escape her muffled mouth,
As she sipped her last breath.
Now on this night,
She stands before me like a silhouette,
A horrid creature of decay,
Smelling of death,
With blackened eyes,
And blue peeling lips.
“My dearest Ophelia,
Forgive me” I cry,
Falling to my knees,
Seeing a sneer run across her lips,
As she blows ashes into my face,
Burning my eyes.
“Please I cry” as blood pours like tears,
Spilling from my dry throat,
Feeling my innards as they burn,
As my charred body falls,
Falls to the ground in ashes,
As I part this world,
Into my own hellish torment.
Copyright © Robert Needles | Year Posted 2012
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment