Oven open; head inside,
Poison; carbon monoxide,
Rendered helpless; the woman cries,
Little by little; pieces of her die.
Sylvia, here I am,
Lift your head, yes you can,
Fierce, bold, just like a man,
Flasks, bell jars, and glass cans.
Nick, comfort your mum,
Warn her when the vice-grip comes,
Love her when she loves none,
Make her feel when she's numb.
Ted, come back, she needs you,
Crack her heart, broken in two,
Four minus two, leaves her and you,
Willow, oak, ash and yew.
Frieda, you're only just born,
Know that your mother was not a thorn,
She wandered, lost, only lovelorn,
Letter, poems, words she adorned.
Sylvia went long ago,
I'm just writing to let you know,
Black rooms and deep, deep troughs,
Betrayal drips, runs and flows.
Knives, bullets, stark white pills,
Cashiers, receipts, unpaid bills,
Sadness, tears, depression kills,
Dead woman, and left no wills.
____________
Tribute to the wonderful Sylvia Plath.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
