“the play ‘s the thing.
Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.”
Oh, Dear Hamlet.
The king is dead. Long live the king.
He is transformed into a frail and foolish old man
Who babbles and wanders and dreams.
There is no redress from him.
He sits on your back, carried in a basket
Wrapped in a blanket
You guard him from the wind by long habit.
He is empty, and you are hollow.
Gertrude, is lost in a fantasy
Created by others, but maintained by she,
Of crystal, and silk, and brave finery
There is no talking to her.
She hears only flattery
And sees only reflections of her dream
Pieced together long ago, fraying at the seam
She dances alone, without you child.
Laertes, my brother,
The son you should have been.
He could have been you, it should have been you.
And I, lost to madness
Poor Ophelia, deluded, abandoned and used.
There’s rue for you, and some for me.
The maidens flowers fall from my hair.
Would that I had lived.
Warmth in my joints, a spark in my eyes
A copper crown of braided glory.
But I am cold, and drowned.
I rise again for you, dear Dane,
From my watery tomb, to speak truth
To you, the author of all.