Is It Poetry
Around the rim a heavy rain that falls.
Slow and burning and heavy their she swoll.
It made no difference to the underbelly
of the clouds their dark side up.
Birds hung low and you so throaty had.
Green saplings shed their own leaves.
The button of a rose that grew from rocks.
Beneath the ink well of the sky the storm
And love is sweetened by each breath she took.
The white sand she sits beneath her hips.
Is broad and wide.
And sliding down he fell inside and died.
She took him by the hand and kissed him there.
The only way to see the dusk
and silver twilight stars and paradise.
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(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)