under
Learn more about other poetry terms
Strange fruit swinging in the rain,
waves crashing against the stern of the ship,
feet marching upon weeping waterfalls,
words on faded papyrus, constituting nothing more now
than when the ink was waiting to dry.
I stand there by the light,
And howl under the moon,
The pale face removed of blood,
I feel with my icy fingers,
And allow sad wisps of breath
Seep along the rolling hills
Where I feel at ease,
