Nights; Their Ill Will Poem by james watkin

Nights; Their Ill Will



With eyes, pulled down o'er
With each house's
Dumbfounds me, nights, the worst
Ill will rouses

Blows, feigning mischief!
Boughs, feign anguish!
Grassed, no more sinister
As moon-shades. Zilch squish.

Tuesday, March 21, 2023
Topic(s) of this poem: night
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
james watkin

james watkin

Melbourne Australia
Close
Error Success