Ovens

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Every start
ends
with Plath,
Sheep in Fog,
fatherless,
clouds with babies faces
drifting.

A failure to treat
wounds searing
and evident
leaves scientists,
just like poets,
susceptible;
gangrenous patriarchs
falling.

Each crack padded
with damped shreds,
her final effort to protect
innocence
which inevitably
can only end
lost.

Motherless
clouds drifting.

 

April 1, 2014
Julie Ayers
NaPoWriMo 1

 

Inspiration:  http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/10028478/Sylvia-Plath-poem-written-two-weeks-before-she-died-reveals-disturbed-state-of-mind.html

 

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