This year came unto me like a Wraith;
Bearing away my hope in surreal faith;
It unfolded its stygian wings
And spewed forth such ghastly things:
Cancers of different kinds,
Affecting the body, the heart, the mind,
Gods disappeared with flute and tusk,
The sun merely gazed from the gathering dusk.
Fight against the dying light, Thomas said;
But Plath was also a poet to be read.
I tried to run to the sun, catch his light,
His failure proved to be the worst of the blight,
He could do naught but be what he is
And change not a jot of how he lives.
So as the day died, he left me to night
I stopped screaming. I surrendered the fight.
Doing this brought me some clarity:
The utter darkness of wing made me see,
This wraith of Time is my constant friend,
Who doesn’t give hope, who doesn’t pretend,
Who promises not even pain to rend
Some new beginning from an old end.


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