There are mysteries deeper than sex,
fathers, mothers and blue-eyes babies
more fathomless than final death
in the void beyond the bell-jar.

The separateness of self, expressed
imperfectly in ink and page’s
ranting villanelles and villains
otherwise, in silence.

Series of blind passages,
passings, passions, pains and labors
circling wearily, trod by rote
in ever-smoother traces.

Illusory escape offered
in knife-gleam, stunning revelation
suffocating clouds are
always about to part.

No one will ever out-write Shakespeare
the Golden Age was before you were born
and even accidental
suicide is just the last
locked door.


8 thoughts on “Sylvia

    1. dayzha Post author

      I believe it’s a desperate gamble, for most who take the step — a last faint hope that somehow their miracle will arrive. If they’d only turn to the phone, or the door that leads outside, instead of the oven … well, we’d have more poetry.

      Thank you for the comment!

      1. Wuji

        Ponder, share, rejoice – for poets’ too often write in a dark corner.

        Your poems bleed of the muse of many hours of writing. thousands, even.

  1. dayzha Post author

    thousands of painful hours of writing, but not often poetry … thus we hone our craft, yes? And I will seek out your writing soon — when I have more strength. 🙂


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