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Hannah York Poems
The Secret Garden
There's rambling roses slowly growing, And a creaking mossy swing is groaning, Birds will swoop throughout the day, Snatching shiny fruit along the way,
It's not me.
He didn't see me, when he looked in my eyes, He tried to cover it with copious lies, I know I should have ended it,
Eveytime I look at you I catch my breath, Nothing can part us not even death, My heart is spiralling flying up high, Because your eyes hold me like the sky,
One smile and I've fallen, A wink and I'm gone, I won't hear others callin', A hug and the deals done.
I saw a butterfly one day Delicate as lace I pondered as I slowly walked What god had made his angel face?
The invisible hand, It's pushing me, I'm not sure where I'll land, All I know is that I can't see,
The Street Child
Wild feral eyes, Looking for redemption from the skies. Flailing grasping limbs, Not avaricious in their sins.
I Am Not Alone.
Always fighting Falling under It's so hard to breath Drowning, spluttering
Story Of My Life
Like I couldn't stop sawing, The blood doesn't seem to stop pouring. White to red, Live to dead.
Can You Tame The Shrew?
They say dreams can come true, That dream should be me and you, I poisoned our love, You say I looked for too much guidance from above,
I will never forget that fateful day, Haunting me in its terrible way. As soon as they said you were to die, There was nothing I could do but cry.
The horse and his master.
Through hell and back he went The soldier Always fighting Never thinking
The old woman.
There she lies Half clothed in anger and terror What is the justice of this world?
The lone flower.
From the swooping eagle to the thundering horse a golden glow the universe embraces a beating heart, a spiritual skeleton. The soul takes flight.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The Secret Garden
There's rambling roses slowly growing,
And a creaking mossy swing is groaning,
Birds will swoop throughout the day,
Snatching shiny fruit along the way,
Plants will grow and stretch up high,
To steal a sun ray from the sky,
There's a sparkling stream a flowing,
And still the magic keeps on growing,
The sandstone walls will never crumble,
As long as flowery blossom tumbles,
The weathered gate shall never fail,
Or shatter in an angry gail,
None shall ever mute the lark,
Nor make this secret garden stark,
It shall grow on blossoming love, ...