Your head held under an ice covered lake,
The water pricks your naked body like bitter needles,
Encased in a delicate web of frost,
The icy water blisters your tender skin.
You see the shimmering sun,
Light filters through the glassy pellicle,
It splits the colours as a golden prism,
Yet you can only see, not touch.
Your hand breaks through the rink of death,
Icicles pierce your wrists,
Blood diffuses, dancing through the liquid arsenic,
No biting air can you inhale,
Just gasps of arctic air bursts your raw lungs,
Glacial eyes search for an answer in the cold shadowy depths.
Drowning in the frozen flames of the cauldron.
Entombed in a chilling coffin.
Hannah Lunn, aged 15
February 12, 2000
The Sylvia Plath Forum is administered by Elaine Connell, author of Sylvia Plath: Killing The Angel In The House.
Web Design by Pennine Pens.