Is It Poetry
Terror Of The Soul
The heart grows cold, then flutters still.
Her blue eyes mirror,
what comes forth from those lips.
The driving force within,
the living thorn within the soul.
her whip across my back.
hide the depth of her well.
I'm just a slave to her misery.
My heart bleeds,
I've waited her whole life.
For this moment.
If I close my eye's,
then you have weakened me.
And if my soul is by her refused,
I have died in fear.
Black is black and blue is grey,
tonight she has a say.
Purple sooths her heart beats,
in my blood.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1923 - 1998)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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