I’m Afraid of Virginia Woolf

Of her soul, her unbridled consciousness, alive even
in death through the tongues of her ink.
Of her steady command of words, her powerful
requisition of literacy that
could bring a grown man to his knees,
with such simple beauty.
Of the watery embrace that curdled her mind,
her brilliant brain put to bed.

Such a loss to the world
was the taking of Virginia Woolf,
by a force bigger and more intimidating than
her own control of language;
by the evil reckoning inside her mind,
from the depths of her very own genius.

And it shows that even the greatest and the brightest
are not completely shielded from
the supernovas,
eclipsing and pulsating and exploding,
that eventually become of us all.

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