Sylvia Plath

Danse Macabre

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Danse Macabre

Down among strict roots and rocks, eclipsed beneath blind lid of land goes the grass-embroidered box. Arranged in sheets of ice, the fond skeleton still craves to have fever from the world behind. Hands reach back to relics of nippled moons, extinct and cold, frozen in designs of love. At twelve, each skull is aureoled with recollection's ticking thorns winding up the raveled mold. Needles nag like unicorns, assault a sleeping virgin's shroud till her stubborn body burns. Lured by brigands in the blood, shanks of bone now resurrect, inveigled to forsake the sod. Eloping from their slabs, abstract couples court by milk of moon: sheer silver blurs their phantom act. Luminous, the town of stone anticipates the warning sound of cockcrow crying up the dawn. With kiss of cinders, ghosts descend, compelled to deadlock underground.