5th august 2012
sylvia plath,
you wrote with a math we fools don't comprehend.
wise thoughts i shall lend
from you,
to understand
the darkness
embracing your one man band.
no grace, grace-less?
no faith, faith-less?
no hope, hopeless?
did you reach
or were you holding in
the all consuming black din?
in those lines
in your fine rhymes.
every syllable packed
decades passed, still attacked
by many a fine literaturist.
cinder bones but you exist,
still.
sharp words so bitter on the tongue
unravelling for meaning:
articulate yarn undone.
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