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