Women and Crows

At only 30, I smile
At you whom I abhor,
At you,
Oh I adore your golden heart.
I’d struck gold--
If only you’d hold my heart, hold
It well--

Oh! Mine own love,
Tho’ your heart be broken
‘Twas once you have been happy--
And Love, and Dreams--are not
these lovely things enough?

If love
haunts even those who dream
beneath yew trees,
then hearts
the world over are ill-prepared
for 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.