10-13-2010, 03:56 PM
A very Gothic, Bronte-style poem, what with the elegance and pessimism. At once as soft and delicate as a music box, then grim with deep undercurrents. The image of the sun rising and her mask falling off as a result moved me very much; it reminded me of the final lines from Sylvia Plath's poem Ariel, where she talks about being thrust by her baby's cry into "the cauldron of morning."
The line beginning "And her perfection yet" threw me off a bit, because of the odd syntax; would "And her perfection, as of yet, is undeniable" work better?
The line beginning "And her perfection yet" threw me off a bit, because of the odd syntax; would "And her perfection, as of yet, is undeniable" work better?