A Murder Of Plaths

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a murder of plaths,
reclining under a glass
bell jar.

a coven of ovens,
filled with the hearts and minds
of the sick and the blind.

all breath anguished,
soon to be vanquished,
surreptitiously extinguished,
under the silent dome,
cold and alone.

the losses colossal,
unbearably awful
and obscene.

with spirits ravenous,
they rise like Lazarus,
hoping to wash
their hearts clean.

in penitent zeal,
he rushes to steal
kisses from their
and drinks of their bitter wine.

the same flavor
fizzes upon
my own tongue
when I’m unstrung
and not mindful
of my Truth

and my fragile
glass heart
always comes apart
whenever you’re around.

i can’t even afford
your silent discord
or your corrosive
explosive rages
that destroy me
by stages.

i’m broken–
not shattered.
this matters

to me.

i can gather my pieces
and assemble once more,
the light that shines
from my core.

but i digress.
this is goodbye,
you heartless wretch.