Ophelia and Rimbaud

Ophelia's suicidal High Art married, or morphed into the Rimbaud's: "Drunken Boat".

Ophelia...smote egress, you are Rimbaud's:
"Drunken Boat".
The river you fell asleep on found you a sea.
Your bones know no seabed--poppies, marigolds,
orchids, black roses fill your eyes, mouth and ribcage.
You substantiate what color sea may give your lay.
Its foamy waddle has signaled you to one too many
climes...an orison broke open.
What strain of tragedy now holds you, back on depth,
eyes on sky?
You dove headlong into a Shakespearean maelstrom--
where mortal coil confounds.
Great winds fish-scale your waters, only to invert their
maw.
There are lines daily of sea's breadth, whereupon
its creatures come single file to kiss your bone.
Ophelia...wrested from river to great sea, shedding
trails of flesh.
If bone were eye of needle--you've pulled through,
heir to tragedy, circumnavigating your infamy.


Konstantinos Mark