The Becoming - Poem by Rebecca Stansfield
Jumping from the morning, but
who's wife sting,
as how we face the upcoming
After collapsing nightmares; no longer hung,
and dreams in which I cling.
On a hearty past of tragedy,
When we face the summer,
and motions moving ocean deep,
the waves of the past and of the weak,
and we're hopeless until the dream, almost.
Not longer, Not I try to dwell, not.
I'm aroused by the sleeping summer that awaits,
and all that before, never well,
is an opening!
At each step in the day is Wimbledon,
and faces of the latter is only the crowd,
and with soon existence of that feeling we finally won,
is approaching loud in prayers sound.
Comments about The Becoming by Rebecca Stansfield
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You