Whirlwind

Rose from a grave, wrapped in sheets;
White, like from days of summer’s heat.
Burnt through the soul, as you can tell.
Rising up, I turn from Hell,
But Heaven's closed its gates for peace.
I’m just a whirlwind, not myself.

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741