Is It Poetry
Speak to Me of Prose
Those lines so tight and light they speak to me of prose.
The way that time turns back the clock,
this woman not a girl.
Open doors, clear windows show what I have to give.
Deep inside the closet is a door -closed he showed me.
Because you liked it still - Still I like it to!
Perhaps one day the woman that always was I am.
Perhaps one day the little girl out side she ran away.
My brain once his, is seen - I can not let it go.
Those the wise the way I choose when wisdom is because.
Above his mantle sits my clock, below his looks I have.
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Comments about this poem (Speak to Me of Prose by Is It Poetry )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Harivansh Rai Bachchan
(27 November 1907 – 18 January 2003)
(13 February 1879 - 2 March 1949)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Robert Louis Stevenson
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(31 March 1934 – 31 May 2009)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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