Is It Poetry
Underneath Her Lips
Moist is humid, grass when green and wet,
the grass is where I'm from.
Such simple rules without retreat.
Each pale face the moon is full,
to end your suffering, I would and yet.
Does she love me still?
Will she shed her garb and still be whole?
Some hate love and some love hate.
Young girls they still grow blindly hotter,
some grow faint.
The glow upon her face the rain has drained
the only place that I've known rest.
Underneath your lips I've found my place.
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(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)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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