CONTENT WARNING: Death
The poet is slain
she lies in vain,
wishing, praying, for that sweet refrain.
For years she has craved
a breath of salvation –
her pen lies empty,
the words are broken –
trapped –
temporary relief.
She is crying.
The poet dies,
the poet cries –
around and around we go
children on a carousel.
We think we escape,
but never.
Never –
the poet is silenced.
She lives in the shadows –
forced to write without a sound,
her own death note.
She is empty.
The poet is killed,
she lives unfulfilled –
Sylvia –
tell Emily, I am on my way home –
Ophelia calls to me,
I can hear her, in the daffodils.
We are all one –
you and I –
we are soldiers,
wading in on the tide –
searching for the light.
For when she is fallen – deep within the flowers,
the poet sighs –
She is free.