Is It Poetry
Around the rim a heavy rain that falls.
Slow and burning and heavy their she swoll.
It made no difference to the underbelly
of the clouds their dark side up.
Birds hung low and you so throaty had.
Green saplings shed their own leaves.
The button of a rose that grew from rocks.
Beneath the ink well of the sky the storm
And love is sweetened by each breath she took.
The white sand she sits beneath her hips.
Is broad and wide.
And sliding down he fell inside and died.
She took him by the hand and kissed him there.
The only way to see the dusk
and silver twilight stars and paradise.
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Comments about this poem (Volcanic Lake by Is It Poetry )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Henry David Thoreau
(12 July 1817 – 6 May 1862)
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