Salted to be a fake.
Welcome to my world.
Welcome to my hate.
Step into my burning scars.
The tree which grows into nothing.
Rotten roots filled by red.
I am dead.
I never wants to be a tree that sees.
Instead it is stuck with me.
Black my mind to the wind.
Dark are the stars which shades to shine from behind.
Rings of ice, fingered to vanity.
Blistered by my sanity.
Fall into my descend.
Ascent before the blow.
I am crying.
I am dying.
Do you hear.
Can you feel.
Echoes of my call.
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Comments about this poem (Echoes by Unic Cjonr )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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