Great orchids bloom
Against the humid, foggy gloom,
Seedlings eat the dead
And on my skin rolls angry red
As army ants crush my bones
Marching over my heaving tombstone;
And I rot six feet underneath
While paradise glares at me with gnashing teeth.

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741