Is It Poetry
If I touched it or it came to be.
Each crystal month of every red branch.
Red leaves once green that never fall.
Comming over to me,
of the autumn where my window is closed.
The body and aching everything.
Which could move aside to be close to the impalpable ash.
Tossed onto the fire or the wrinkle off the log.
The scent is carried off from me to you.
A certain message mixed all the way,
the boat which is fragrant, the light and the petal,
is small you are those islands which wait.
That sail from you to who I really am.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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