In my dream Sylvia Plath's daughter
was reciting a poem about her mother,
my poor, poor mother, sweet girl
(I fail to wield the exact words),
with the words being written,
printed on pale yellow pages
as they were being pronounced,
and by the time I realized it was
a good one, a very good one,
my subconscious beating me
in the art of poetry, I also knew
I was in a dream and would forget
all but a lingering sense of it
waking, and no point of rushing
for pen and paper, I was never
one with the power of memory
the surrealists had, feverishly
capturing what the dreams
had granted, and there it is now,
a mere vague remembrance
of tone and shape caged
in a locked cell of memory
and no key to ever release it.
Only this to mark it, an epitaph,
as it dies like a Swedish prince.
28.02.2026
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