Ghost on the battlements, pale hands, voice like winter wind, my brother, my crown, my blood, and Hamlet sees, and Hamlet hears, and the world tilts. Denmark, cold stone, corridors smelling of rot, whispers sliding through the halls, knives hidden in smiles.
To be or not to be, he asks the air, the sky, the skulls on the beach, thinking, spinning, falling inside himself. Ophelia—soft, broken, drowning in petals, madness clinging like wet cloth, and he can’t hold her, can’t save her, can’t stop the river of blood.
Plots inside plots, teeth behind doors, Claudius smiling like poison, Gertrude soft but blind, the throne heavy with guilt and lies. Hamlet dances with death, theater masks, daggers, poison, every step a question and an answer no one wants.
And the end — sword swinging, screams cutting through smoke, bodies collapsing, the crown slipping, Denmark bleeding out in silence. Hamlet falls, Horatio holding nothing but grief, tell my story, whispers the ghost of reason, and the ghosts, the ghosts, they drift away, leaving only echoes.
[written in a fragmented, fever-dream, stream-of-consciousness style]
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