Is It Poetry
Death, a contract Poem by Is It Poetry
Crushed bones, ground fine nice is her shaker.
My boots find no pleasure walking across, faces by dozen.
Contracts sung in sin I have gained, all fit your eye.
Once long ago in youth your pleasure, was once my pasture.
Over time this pleasure your pasture grew thick, bland to the taste.
Needs by me more, much, much, more.Promise kept and honored.
My shelves grew full quickly, sadly so.
I enjoy excitably inexhaustible rivers of milk, justly so.For one, you, I
would settle for a mere trickle? I sweat that in one gush.
No, you enjoy shallow pleasure, for the time that you have.
Hearing the call of all, I enter, then leave as a clearing dream, the next morning.
With you another fistful of bones, crushed into powder, to flavor my meals, alone.
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Comments about this poem (Death, a contract by Is It Poetry )
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(20 October 1854 – 10 November 1891)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
- Caged Bird, Maya Angelou
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou