Is It Poetry
The Red Scarf
The red scarf around my cut it won't, heal it won't seal.
Come quietly to me it is right here, you want to see it?
Like all the others you stick your other finger in it?
Like he once said of it, to me to see if it's really me?
Deep and red is my scar there it is, where you left it.
The red scarf it is there, helping you pulled aside.
You like the tide moving it in trying I push it out.
Ruby red by any and all means, I push at it and you shout.
One dose of sharp pain and my face, forever it is changed.
Bald is the chilly hill of life for me where are the trees.
Where have all the green leaved bushes gone?
Dirty the blood from my mouth, still are it's leaves.
Ardent is fire roaring passion that once was for me.
Time has it wasted, it cuts deeply of me.
Time it is vain as for pain sap it weeps from the cut,
loved once deep and the leaves have turned brown.
You or me, whom are you do not come.
Stop hold it back when you can and I won't, it is mind.
Whom comes from the edge it desires,
sing that song, songs of death brings me out and over into it.
Cheep is the value each is the wrist and it bleeds as it digs,
it is deeper, you dig where you will.
And it is deeper than the deepest of seas what you see in of me.
Stained with my blood the cut still remains, to be filled.
I saw, sawing at the sun through your window, are your vain?
And the searing pain it just burns like the fire it never goes away.
Wish that you may, and to you do I come, you wish that I might.
Fill up the cut with red cherries, blood drips from there, tonight.
I dig in deeper the cut and the bade slices into your shallow wrist.
You through the mirror I watch, as you dig into me deeper, no trust.
And deeper is bliss when it comes as you come, no trust because.
When will it be full enough for you but never enough for me?
So full and wide is it that must, I will die from the cut at the end.
I will make the scarf of silk, hide my deep cut at your end.
Scars we were meant to have and yours I have done with.
You, yours to be borne with and like yours mine is trust,
You will remain to be cut on, until the last cut and for you I've died.
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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