“... an old woman rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.”
Mirror – Sylvia Plath
The poet leads where she will,
to a familiar room,
to a dark muse,
to a mortal terror.
I welcome the mystery,
the naked truth of it,
the freely tendered beauty in torment.
For though it may haunt me,
it leaves me whole.
But you with your bent to deceive,
why would I trust you?
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