Solitude ~ Sir Fredrick Lord Leighton ~ 1890
An exhausted moon,
haunted by clouds
and August’s thermometer,
shines her shallow light
across my bedroom floor.
Joined in our communion
of melancholy we search
for erasers linked to lead
sharp enough to rewrite destiny.
Empathy’s drain has robbed
stars from our lanterns.
There is only so much darkness
a candle can illuminate
until sorrow burns away the wick.
Feeling another’s pain through
the thin bones of our own,
the moon and I peer toward the east
wondering how many new tears
sunlight will bring to our bell jar.
Comments
I had a memory loss about what a Bell Jar was but caught up again with a quick short Google break. We have three with expired family members' watches inside. While on break I ran into Sylvia Plath notes that this was the title of her only novel, Bell Jar. I had forgotten that also. I guess forgetfulness is beater than constant pain.
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