Sylvia

I wish I could go back,
to February 11, 1963
in London, England.
I would have given my life,
to save Sylvia's life.

her head,
in the oven,
because she couldn't
wrap her head around,
how important
her poetry
would be to me.
the world,
it needed her.
as her children did.
we all need her voice,
her words that cut
through the silence.

but the weight
of the world,
became too much,
etched into her bones,
pressed onto her chest,
a burden too heavy
for anyone to bear.

and now we are left,
with the echoes
of her brilliance,
her haunting verses,
that ache
with the pain of loss,
and the yearning
for her presence.

I wish I could go back,
to that February day,
to reach out my hand,
to say the words
she needed to hear,
to shield her
from the darkness,
that clouded her vision.

but time
is unforgiving,
and we are left,
to hold the fragments
of her legacy,
to honor her
with our own words,
and to remember,
that sometimes
even the most luminous souls,
are not immune
to the shadows.