Sylvia Plath

By Bhargab Das

Don't do all poets leave their mortal possessions at an asylum? 

Dosent death embrace every soul?

From even the wretched to the golden seats of Hiram?

Now when it crosses even my bronze path,

I finally believe the believes of Sylvia Plath.

I'm totally fine 

My eyes have not forgotten to replicate their silvery shine 

But as my soul crumbles to construct my shrine

My verses Betray, they reminisce the comprehension to rhyme 

And when from the grounds they scream,

"I'm not a psychopath!"

I know minstrel,

You were just affected by the effects of Sylvia plath.

Rosemary turns to ivy,

Soul snatched from the ones once lively,

Is it the rain?

Or have my tears learned to cascade in pessimistic soliloquy?

And from the heavens they scream,

"I wish to be a lyricist! Not be kissed by death!" 

I know evocative flesh and bones,

You carried the same fate as the fate of Sylvia Plath.

By Bhargab Das