deepundergroundpoetry.com
Pale On The Shenandoah
In my gothic poetic melancholia, listening to the whispers
in my Shenandoah. From the graves of my ancestors,
picking crow, weeping cello. In my solemnity of madness.
As I lay me down to feast through the cobble street gates,
piquing blood's puree. The fluid of my being and milk
of essence. As we bond in the deep mahogany, my pale
countenance.
in my Shenandoah. From the graves of my ancestors,
picking crow, weeping cello. In my solemnity of madness.
As I lay me down to feast through the cobble street gates,
piquing blood's puree. The fluid of my being and milk
of essence. As we bond in the deep mahogany, my pale
countenance.
Published 19th Mar 2023
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Anonymous
20th Mar 2023 1:29am
<< post removed >>
20th Mar 2023 2:08am
Thank you kindly. I think that I am at my best when I just write and do not think.
