
L’Inconnue
Ophelia wakes from a dream of drowning
and is perplexed to find that her skin has wrinkled –
was it true? Time and time again she forgets
Who and Where she is
between bed and breakfast, baffled
over How and When she metamorphosed –
What has she become? and Why,
she implores, must she leave the solace
of her room, her blue chair, her Chopin
and her towering portrait? Graced by the tempered
silver-bullet eyes of her now-tarnished youth,
the painted figure absently surveys itself, aged
and all but lost in the desolate
and exquisitely infinite depths
from which there will be no return.
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