The shutters look aged. I haven't any.
I traded coverings for apple baskets,
Which broke teeth by wisdom.(Or perhaps folly?)
Why do I still assign to them vision?
Ghosts tend to appear when it rains.
I can see them through the wooden planks,
Like fog on brittle weathered panes.
Never did I possess shatterproof glass.
Sometimes, in the blood I would bathe myself,
And sip intoxicated on the splinters.
My hands faked remembrance of plywood carnivals.
(Or was it real, because I felt it?)
Often I would whittle a world round of shape,
Only to see it as a pine box, fashioned in haste.
Bronze trophy winner
Adding your comment:
) it just sounds as dramatic as Plath herself. Thanks for entering!
