A Dream.

A DREAM

And there she was –
Grey and dusty from a long-time’s sleep.
Her lips were grey and her eyes were grey
And under a silvery curl of fringe
Her blush was grey.
“Plath,” she said,
Her grey voice lingering in white
Cloudy breaths on the grey night air,
“Come on now, take my hand.”
Her voice was bizarrely shaped:
A clipped Anglo-American droll.
“You don’t want to touch my hands –
Trust me, they’re disgusting.”
“I can save you, Plath,” she said.
“You’re dreaming.”
And in her grey sorrowful eyes I see the mirror,
Cold and painfully true:
My flesh is black with blood,
My ribcage prized open
And rats twittering in what remained inside.
“But I’m dead!” I cried.
“Don’t be stupid, Plath, you’re dreaming.”