Like Poisonous Trees
We move like the dead you forgot to bury,
we fall like we're in a hurry
A fricative mist of lethal sounds,
cold eyes and awkward pounds.
Impersonator in earthbound gown
angel with buried feet, passion drags her down.
It's a lovely thing, it is, this ground will confess,
to sleep, to die, in a chemical dress.
Poetry by True Words Embellished
Read 1217 times
Written on 2006-03-02 at 13:09
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liz munro |
