Is It Poetry
Like a bird to see her sitting, roses are
of passions dream, in sight her flight.
Butterfly's know her grace, touches many
all, weeping softly, others without, it is sadly.
Ants march to her smell, hidden never off
to carry bubbles, her journeys path, is clear.
Essenes of berries in her, moistness air laden
dears follow, youth will, never currents to cross.
raises wind, cover embodies still, covered up
she, glories light golden, honey is her, in poise.
Yet she knows, she fav'es him, his heart just bursts...
It loves you just the way you are, it is such in love,
it is so full of you it's crushed..to burst your sun.
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
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