Again, same story just another poet’s form of writing. My story and my writing. Just having some fun with writing and sharing that fun with you. This is with Sylvia Plath as the source for the writing style.

The feast lies still, a carcass of light,
Forks polished to mirrors reflecting no one.
Your voice, a dead weight on the wire,
A sister’s laugh—thin, like ice breaking.

I have lived with betrayal knotted to my spine,
Each twist a day, a holiday, a year.
The dog breathes beside me, a sorrowed sentinel,
Her muzzle a cage, though no crime is hers.

They carve a circle in my absence,
Each knife a word, a name, an address.
The crowd boils—they call it family,
But I am the ash smoldering at its edges.

Your death, my child, has hollowed me,
Yet they wear your shadow for profit.
Photographs auctioned to the tender wound—
A hand black with ink and greed.

My name floats like poison in their mouths,
Their tongues drip with words that clatter
Like stones against a hollow tin—
Truth devoured by teeth of malice.

I wait in the corner of years,
The calendar a guillotine,
Each page a ribbon of forgotten blood,
Each day a faint collapsing.

You think absence is silence—
It is a scream too vast for the ear.
I sit, tied to my service dog’s breath,
And hold the world at bay.