Is It Poetry
Jealous, and I am.
Standing before me,
Because of all the men that have come.
Men, way to never to few, the many.
Speaking only in English.
The places that you, have have I, been.
In between, in and out.
The marks that they leave, is it skin?
That fall down from the sky.
Even the moist leaves, that hang above, down.
The cloud tops that are here,
Where they are.
Right their, where you, where they are.
Coming home, in past noon.
Here in the middle of the night.
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Comments about this poem (, Always' by Is It Poetry )
The Road Not Taken
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Edgar Allan Poe
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