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More poems by Sylvia PlathSylvia Plath | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments (1) | Books by Sylvia PlathBooks by Sylvia Plath

Apprehensions

Sylvia Plath

There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself --
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.

A grey wall now, clawed and bloody.
Is there no way out of the mind?
Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world,
There is only sourness.

This red wall winces continually:
A red fist, opening and closing,
Two grey, papery bags --
This is what i am made of, this, and a terror
Of being wheeled off under crosses and rain of pieties.

On a black wall, unidentifiable birds
Swivel their heads and cry.
There is no talk of immorality amoun these!
Cold blanks approach us:
They move in a hurry.

Added: 7 Sep 2001 | Last Read: 22 Jan 2018 9:19 AM | Viewed: 15728 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/1376/ | Viewed on 22 January 2018.
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