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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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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