The universe rests
its foetid rind on her
curls, like a tired ox
unable to cultivate

sealed by mockery –
cracks in her petroleum
skin, rot away
so easy in morbid

an unaccepted whole,
warm waves shatter
her mind, a frigid urn –
dying from being called

the bumblebee waltz
from home, clangs louder
than the brass bray
of alert filaments
in her heart,

she seeks easy sleep
from an eternal night of
sleeping-pill full moons
smooth, conniving

till the mature dark womb
sets her aflame, she –
a field of poppies, free,
or a blinding star sea
boundless –

an endless reincarnation.

(P.s. At around 4:30 a.m. on 11th February 1963, Sylvia Plath took her own life, by sticking her head into the oven.
“Even amidst fierce flames,
the golden lotus can be planted”.
This is an ode to her. )


2 thoughts on “Sylvia.

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