Underneath a grim sky
Fluid with specks of dust
And the rapture of a fertile moon
I wonder will it always be thus?
My face pale and wane
My eyes dull and lifeless like a sharks
A mouth that speaks of trivial things
With a high timid voice
That understands nothing of words
The tender dialect of lovers
Will it ever move past my lips again?
Tiny shards of wisdom
That linger and endow me
With strange enchantments
Will I ever be inspired again?
My hands occupy my time with work
Daily I labor
For nothing in particular
Like a barren woman
Who tracks her ovulation
Even knowing she shall never bare any fruit
I am empty like that woman
And just as insatiable
Each night I fall into consecrated bliss
Yet even my dreams are ashen and uninspired
Silence gives me hope
With its ominous turnings
That both frighten and consume
This poem was Plath inspired and one of the only poems I’ve never edited. Though very old it remains curiously close to my heart. It is one of the only poems I have never hated.