Sylvia Plath

sylvia plath's unfortunate end
at first was merely a ghastly finale -
the world seemed less, the air more thin
a stark reminder of the battles fought within
the pages she left behind, a testament
to the war waged in the silence of her mind.

but as night turned in,
my thoughts began to rally too
echoing, clamoring
until i processed each trauma -
each memory a specter, each sorrow a specter's twin
that the oven became morbid curiosity
a steel maw of silence, swallowing the din.

and then sylvia plath's end
was something i understood
and i found a kinship,
a solace in her death,
a haunting comfort left behind.