The Palm Tree Poet.

Can hear the ballad she's playing?

her hips move like the samba,

that plays around the night shift.

She stays in her apartment,

glowing with florescent peach hues.

Incense seeps out her entrance door.

She isn't drunk, nor drugged.

She is just euphoric at heart,

Her voice is smooth as the milk and honey,

atleast that's how God described.

She is not of this universe,

She is not like our kind.

Four sided walls,

tainted with ink writing.

I asked for her name.

She replied ," the palm tree poet."


The rain had begun to fall

and so did she,

the rain is her.

the earth is we.




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