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Apprehensions

 There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself --
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.
A grey wall now, clawed and bloody.
Is there no way out of the mind? Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world, There is only sourness.
This red wall winces continually: A red fist, opening and closing, Two grey, papery bags -- This is what i am made of, this, and a terror Of being wheeled off under crosses and rain of pieties.
On a black wall, unidentifiable birds Swivel their heads and cry.
There is no talk of immorality amoun these! Cold blanks approach us: They move in a hurry.

by Sylvia Plath
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