The Prisoner
He wears a pure solid flesh tongue:
He sings a tune of overt hums, he swings
a dance of metal-bladed ringhorns-
the lioness that speaks the horrid night
of his very minute-like plight-
by reason of a glass or two
of that full-mug beer with which his life
once more springs slowly as the sun freely
sets across the wind, across my line:
feverish as cold-fed mute modes of dust
rust and the hush of its mushy mist madness
in light's last obscure absence
as cell walls and freedoms' any various sort
collect him and toss him over the yet limitless
edge
of this 2-am mid-dawn daydream:
He spears a song again upon another's longing
sad and eery-moded little tiny ear of kind.
And as the hums pierce a reckoning begins afresh.
He sings a tune of overt hums, he swings
a dance of metal-bladed ringhorns-
the lioness that speaks the horrid night
of his very minute-like plight-
by reason of a glass or two
of that full-mug beer with which his life
once more springs slowly as the sun freely
sets across the wind, across my line:
feverish as cold-fed mute modes of dust
rust and the hush of its mushy mist madness
in light's last obscure absence
as cell walls and freedoms' any various sort
collect him and toss him over the yet limitless
edge
of this 2-am mid-dawn daydream:
He spears a song again upon another's longing
sad and eery-moded little tiny ear of kind.
And as the hums pierce a reckoning begins afresh.
Labels: Sylvia Plath
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