Sad Girls

I dreamt of Carson McCullers
the other night
of her lonely words
fastened with such beauty
and her sickness
her strokes
her alcoholism
her isolated characters,
outcasts trying to find meaning
alone in a brutal world
constantly seeking
but never finding,
her gothic sight
set upon southern clay
and the intense slumber
that took up her final days
and with bloody brains,
as with her desolate art
she died hunting
with her lonely heart

I dreamt of Sylvia Plath
the other night
her beautiful half-smile
veiling her warring heart
and those eyes that hid
behind many masks
the lovely poet
with such fierce verse
who dreaded inside her
the shadow of madness,
the raven
and she
with such intense imagination
scribbled down her
naked desperation
“ricocheting down the
corridor of
laughter and tears”
with a husband untrue,
and the mindless hell
of domesticity
sapping the creativity
from her pores,
she ended it all
by her own will
her final art.

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