Hamlet

words, words, words upon eyelids,
harsh words like a child’s innocent hand;
the unintentional malice
delicate in its God-like strength,
unleashing itself unto the wings of

a butterfly
wandered into grasping hands,
caught, halved, unhinged, unnamed,
squirming beneath

this sordid mess
what yet remained in the corners
of the tarnished soul? split
with blood unseen, truths unwhispered;
what is reality but battered
conscience, putrid spit
between treacherous teeth?

to be or not to be, that
is the question: to die, to sleep,
perchance to dream—lost!

lost, he was—trapped,
in a moment, in a daze, a heartache

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