AnnnaRexic

There is a place where lonley willows weep and moaning rivers groan against their shores, where mournful swallows sing themselves to sleep and shrouds of flowers stifle grassy moors. And through the timeless scene Ophelia treads with wreathes of thistles trailing from her hands. Her crowns of brambles coil around her head as Queen of cliche, on the bank she stands. The girl inside is trapped by playwright's games a puppet forced to dance a certain way. Her path was set before he knew her name, brought into life to die inside a play. What cruel man would push her to the brink and let her drown between his lines of ink?