The Dirge of Sylvia Plath

Having succumbed to suicidal insouciance, From which mellifluous melted words dripped, She fought the nemesis of the inner annoyance, Who beleaguered her with languishing lips. The lithe lips whose fingers scratched labyrinthian letters, Upon parchment paper with opulent serendipity, Ever flowing in metric harmony by her gossamer tethers, Of her susurrous voice that echoed from cerebral captivity. Such dalliance in the days in which she sung, Erstwhile her evanescence breathed harbingers of art, Whilst lassitude disentangled the scrummage she strung, In time's spun web of temporal tricks to either end or start. May your words resound in palimpsest, And across them may there grow, A cynosure of eyes to hide the grimmest, Of morose inure from whence you've known. If time could send me back to when, You opened up the sepulcher in your oven, I'd make sure to take and tell you then, Let's make, instead of head, some lemon muffins.