---

Sylvia Plath - Childless Woman
Work rating: Medium

	The womb
	Rattles its pod, the moon
	Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.

	My landscape is a hand with no lines,
	The roads bunched to a knot,
	The knot myself,

	Myself the rose you acheive—-
	This body,
	This ivory

	Ungodly as a child`s shriek.
	Spiderlike, I spin mirrors,
	Loyal to my image,

	Uttering nothing but blood—-
	Taste it, dark red!
	And my forest

	My funeral,
	And this hill and this
	Gleaming with the mouths of corpses.
Source
The script ran 0.003 seconds.