Amleto

Books upon books, built up like battlements
Against an onslaught not yet met.
Characters seeking a story,
We turn the faded pages and meet only pretentious, derivative selves,
For we are neither so novel nor so interesting that we have not found immortality before.

Amleto agonises over his Ophelia,
Who treads at the corners of our conversations,
Taking centre stage as she pleases.
So too the frail queen - such women has he loved and lost!
A library cannot save him from this.
Rather, the words must be his own;
I don’t want to live a life like focaccia dipped in coffee, he posits,
As if this explains a great deal,
And to listen,
To be taken in confidence,
Is an education in kind.

Oh, if you would be my friend!
Melancholic, pedantic,
With charm both affected and naive
In the unselfconscious performance of your principality,
Suspicious of my watchful, womanly eyes
Looking on in affectionate amusement,
As one does with an indulged child.
Do not fear, I think very highly of you;
We must all forgive the little scenes that play out
As we allow ourselves to draw back the curtain.