After the Tulips

indigo-burstInspired by Sylvia Plath’s “Ariel

On some nights,
black,

with a certain kind of envy
only the sky understands,
these indigo ideas whisper

like the dream I had once
of death calling with pointed fingers,
familiar, but too distant
to touch;

these hands,
that want to pull you in,
and partake of the light

that always shines
in pearl white eyes.

They say, don’t get too close
like she has the plague;
something contagious,

but, the hole in her heart
and the soulless words
that linger
holding me captive,
syllable after syllable

will never reach
further than my pen

and my ink will flow,
gracefully, softly,
with too many adjectives,

and die a slow death.


© Linda Bullerwell, 2015

Public Domain Photo

He Whispered to Me
Filly