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literature
Disease
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Literature Text
The moon is pale
It seems
With illness
Its gaze is sickly
Unfocused
Distorted
A whistle of wind
Plays out against the night
With fingers thrumming
Out a dirge--
The houses ache
With what can only be
A biting cold
A persistent cough
The town is plagued
By sickness
And churns with nausea--
And all the people sit
And sleep
With dreams
Of health
It seems
With illness
Its gaze is sickly
Unfocused
Distorted
A whistle of wind
Plays out against the night
With fingers thrumming
Out a dirge--
The houses ache
With what can only be
A biting cold
A persistent cough
The town is plagued
By sickness
And churns with nausea--
And all the people sit
And sleep
With dreams
Of health
Okay, okay, I know what you're thinking. Stop writing poems, they suck. But I waaaaaant to! Commence whiny child mode.
They're actually fun.
They're actually fun.
© 2012 - 2024 rrbb1313
Comments5
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I liked it! It kinda reminds me of some BM lyrics. Good work!