Ophelia

A poor Ophelia I've made of you
A tortured Macbeth you leave me
After you took my hand
     in the blinding darkness of
     our world
And let my fingers find the knife
     buried in your bosom

O! what a demon you have unleashed
What a beast you have raised
     for slaughter
And with a grin you set me free
     to prey upon the innocent
     and the fragile

Take your weapons--your charm--
Your desperation to some other doorstep
Claw your way out of the flowers
      and swim your way to the
      soft mud
But leave me be, I tell you,
For (in my rage) I'll never need you again