A little Hamlet, on remote planet
in Denmark, was troubled
with Mors – he stumbled
as against a stone, to understand it.
Pebbles flung from anxious Hell
pinged against his helmet;
a pearl-toothed kismet
glimmered from the poisoned well.
It was a union greatly to be wished.
Its whorl unfathomable
shone... like Luna in a fable,
agate Leviathan (unfished).
A curse enclosed it, like a shell;
a nightmare of the sea –
a beast called Jealousy
clutched, rang it like a bell
from bottomlands. It was his grail.
The angry Minotaur
grunted through Knossos-tar
in the crusted mirror – you must fail.
Denmark was full of hardened criminals.
Only Ophelia remained
to pluck the sweet Beltane
of innocence (from sordid halls).
Hamlet stepped up, to meet his fate.
He smiled into the teeth
of Sheol – sensed beneath
basalt of gladness, past debate.