To Sylvia

On the 27th of October the poet Sylvia Plath would have been 87 had she not killed herself. I choose to celebrate her life and mourn her passing. This is a poem for her.

My eyes have gotten tired of the light

That must have been how you felt

When night came and nothing changed

Your heart broken by mundane things 

Is that why you said goodbye so soon

Why you left without a word or a note

Your words were like magic

Musical in their execution

Now I must live without them

The ones you wrote on paper

Can’t compare to what you could have been

You had so much potential

Like an unripe fruit picked before your time

Can your voice still reach the lost souls

Do you still wonder in the gardens at night

Oh sweet child gone too fast

Yet your words are here to last.

I hope to do you justice

With this poem written by a misfit 

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