The vibrations of the stones
Warmed the pocket of Woolf
Beating like a maddening heart
Urging her walk into the Ouse
Silencing her art of words
Words that brought so much pain
To the writer
The silent gas seeped out and
Swirled about Plath’s mane
Of thick hair hiding the pain
A life lived under a bell-shaped jar
Sealing inside pleasure-producing words
Yet allowing the invisible oozing of death
To end the writer’s pain
Rope of natural hemp, so easy
To wrap around the neck of
A suppressed writer suffering in her native land
Tsvetaeva’s words burned hot with honesty
No one else dared to listen
To one whose pain
Will always remain in her words:
“I know the truth…”
Sacrificial blood
Of poems, stories and song
Tidal wave of despair’s flood…
© 2015 ViataMaja
Image: River of Blood by x. xeroprodigy – DS Productions
