This one is another erasure, written from text pulled out of The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath.
I peered at him, Old English-a Beowulf, Nordic and Virginal. He looked at me, boring into my eyes-piercing my head, glossy and depthless, a pure blank sheet-the glossy surface of my brain, my landscape; marble calm Heart of Winter, waiting for the miraculous change, rapt and naked, grey scraps drawn on black fog. Touch of emotion, faintest glow crackling with blue light- skin like cloth-bones break-a split plant; blood-stained bridal sheets, a fierce, bright red Asylum. A sheath of ice, forgetfulness like snow erase the traces of this barefoot doll. Buried. Forgotten.
New Vote: “Cocoon” or “Sunset”