Found Poetry 875

1/4/22

I'm ready for any mourning
all feathers stop flying
under a sun outshone
our piano strings pulled undone
the sound of nature so smug

as for me, I am creaking
my pianissimo jaw plays
the horse flies gallop
I'm ready, yes, but afraid

This poem was created from Sylvia Plath's collected works. Click here to get a book of Plath's poems.

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