Paradox Poem by Anna Wickham
Paradox
My brain burns with hate of you.
I am like a green field swept by scorching wind,
Everything withers.
There is nothing left of promise
But black death. Yet in my heart is our eternal love,
Hard and pure as a moonstone,
And like an opal,
Subtle with change.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Topic(s) of this poem: change,green
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8/28/2026 7:56:34 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
