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.