Sylvia Plath


There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself- Infinite, green, utterly untouchable. Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also. They are my medium. The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights. A grey wall now, clawed and bloody. Is there no way out of the mind? Steps at my back spiral into a well. There are no trees or birds in this world, There is only sourness. This red wall winces continually: A red fist, opening and closing, Two grey, papery bags- This is what i am made of, this, and a terror Of being wheeled off under crosses and rain of pieties. On a black wall, unidentifiable birds Swivel their heads and cry. There is no talk of immorality amoun these! Cold blanks approach us: They move in a hurry.

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