Sylvia Plath Poem by Gert Strydom

With a consuming flame you rose,
gathering a small universe
in your slender hands

words poured out on paper,
thoughts of pain, of torment
of humanity lost under crunching military boots

and ever awaking
like a Lazarus girl,
from the sleep of death
morning by morning
living up to the standards set
by your godlike daddy
who was already dead

but the last time came
that you breathed the pure air,
saw the wind ripping through
your children's hair
without finding any solace there
and you did destroy yourself.