Des Gahan

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In Memory Of Sylvia Plath

In shadows deep, where darkness weaves its tale,
I wander through the realms of Sylvia's wail.
Her words, like ink upon a fragile page,
Reveal the depths of sorrow's haunting cage.

A mind unbound, a spirit tempest-tossed,
She painted portraits of a soul embossed.
With delicate brushstrokes, she laid bare her pain,
Each syllable a cry, a silent strain.

Through turbulent thoughts and melancholy's tide,
Her verses danced, in anguish they confide.
Aching echoes of a fragmented heart,
A kaleidoscope of emotions torn apart.

In bell jar'd chambers, she fought her own wars,
Navigating the labyrinthine shores.
Her pen, a weapon against life's cruel games,
Yet tethered to the weight of desolate flames.

She wove a tapestry of lady Lazarus,
A phoenix rising from ashes of the porous.
A resurrection of self, fierce and raw,
An anthem of defiance, her spirit's flaw.

But beneath the surface, a fragile soul,
Ensnared by demons, her heart took its toll.
Like Ariel trapped beneath the sea's swell,
She yearned for freedom, yet knew not how to quell.

In verses bathed with blood, she etched her fears,
Her voice, a siren's call to grief-stained ears.
Her pain, a symphony of shattered dreams,
A requiem of hope, or so it seems.

Oh Sylvia, your words, a bittersweet embrace,
Ensnaring hearts in sorrow's sacred space.
In darkness, you found solace, so profound,
And left an indelible mark upon the ground.

So let us read your poems, ink-stained and raw,
And listen to the echoes of your poetic draw.
For in your verse, we find a kindred soul,
A reminder that even broken hearts can be whole.

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