At only 30, I smileAt you whom I abhor,At you,Oh I adore your golden heart.I’d struck gold--If only you’d hold my heart, holdIt well--Oh! Mine own love,Tho’ your heart be broken‘Twas once you have been happy--And Love, and Dreams--are notthese lovely things enough?If lovehaunts even those who dreambeneath yew trees,then heartsthe world over are ill-preparedfor suffering wrought by seeking same.
NaPoWriMo Day 9! This is my response to Magaly’s prompt in the Imaginary Garden: TWITTER ME A GOTHIC POEM. Here we have a tweeted conversation between Sylvia Plath and Edgar Allan Poe. And me.