The Delivery, Final and Absolute

A poem as if written by the pen of the writer Sylvia Plath.

The paneled door, a latch I had to force,

Let me into the house of plush and stain.

The engine: Red. A terrible, blunt force

 Of plastic promise, set against the grain.

He is supposed to be here, the small boy,

The blueprint said, 

I am the vector. I am the deploy.

Now the green paper is the closed-off door.

My sack is collapsed, a wrinkled, tired skin.

I stand here, fully done, and perfectly numb.

My work a seal where no life enters in.

I wait for the sound that will not be made.

A small, white breath against the frosted air.

Is the map finished, the final price paid?

Am I required, or merely standing there?

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