If the journey had ever been easy
Prometheus would hold back his fire,
and there'd be no Sylvia Plath or Edgar Allan Poe.
She walked crippled with weight on her back,
and in her pale brown eyes
burnt a fire singed with philosophy and pain.
Every morning, stepping into the furnace outside,
with each dry expansion of her lungs
came the weight of her musings
sending little chills against her arching back
which, having receded the billionth time,
made her wonder on feeling nothing for just a little while.
"Oh sweet, slithering sun, inspire me;
make me a phoenix and build my nest!
Let me rest in my ashes,
bear my burning wings,
and born me a new back to carry the load,
and maybe some new shoes."
Then the furnace flickered
and that was all she said.