it was a place of force—
the wind gagging my mouth with my own blown hair,
tearing off my voice, and the sea
blinding me with its lights, the lives of the dead
unreeling in it, spreading like oil.
i tasted the malignity of the gorse,
its black spikes,
the extreme unction of its yellow candle-flowers.
they had an efficiency, a great beauty,
and were extravagant, like torture.
sylvia plath / the rabbit catcher
the poem goes on, that’s just the beginning. i’m a huge plath fan TBQH. i don’t think there’s a greater poet in english. xxx bookworm