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 1051 times
Written on 2006-03-02 at 13:09

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