Bundle Of Sticks
A little bundle of sticks was impairing
The vision, offering a zero to all praises,
But techniques mattered most.
Escape from the sea of material wealth
So that I can love your blessing,
Fulfilling the mind with its heartache.
Last year had been shredded into oblivion,
The birth and death subdued
For the numbers of our heart
Around the circles of this establishment.
A little bundle of sticks were ill,
Emanating from the eccentricities,
Liking emulations and devolutions.
My years yours, I evade the emissions
Of pride, adding together innocence,
Like a man in regret and soundness.
My stomach was out of milk,
Trying to believe in what to think.
My stomach was one of the stares
As if eyes could conquer the illness
Made by the men of maddening attributes.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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