Sylvia, Sylvia

do you remember

our reflective walks

in that mirrored universe

you were then calling home?

under our prism/prison bell jar, eating

lotus flower cakes,

discussing the playfulness of the grim reaper,

when ushering in

that child-eyed gasp of death

pointing bony finger; this one comes – that one stays


I shared

my slashes; rips against dangerous

memories; red zaggedness

hidden by layers of chunky, junky


You said “each bead a story; each bead a drop of blood”

You said, “we are the phoenix; see the ashes of our decay”

I took the broom from your shaking hands

and swept up the cold, unforgiving

embers; remnants of our beings, out into the world

I said “we are artists of death

so long as

seduction of self-combustion remains”

A stream of consciousness write in response to Yves’ Sunday Writing Prompt: Lady Lazarus/Sylvia Path.