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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The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
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