At My Place
I am a bereaved ghost.
A part of me had died with a lady,
Of the red hot woods.
And should you admire the ire
Of my incandescent rotten soul;
Arrive at my place.
You’re a humble host.
A bit of you lives within me;
Ingrained, in the red pumping nit.
And should you take me as a liar
But receive me as a whole;
Arrive at my place.
I will adorn you with my tales
Of grey and blue
You will brim with a peccant joy,
And will shine coy,
Amid the dirt and mirth
Of my place.
My place stands alone under the stark sky;
Without a roof, without walls.
It accepts the rain with open arms and
It runs from nerve to nerve,
Tickling fragments of my cloudy thoughts.
It is unknown, untouched and it calls for me.
When I stand up on my legs, and go for it;
Will you come with me, to my place?
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Comments about this poem (At My Place by Shouvik Roy )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(September 25, 1930 – May 10, 1999)
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