Learn more about other poetry terms
One day, we’ll surge past the exosphere, flying at two hundred ninety-nine million seven hundred ninety-two thousand four hundred fifty- nine
Harvester, they whisper as she passes, Her bone white mask upon her face, They cast pale rose scented ashes, In hopes that she'll leave it in place.
The horse he drives before him, Is the pale shade of the dawn, But on wheels of darkness, His sickly green carriage is drawn. The hooves raise boils from the earth, The wheels leave tracks like scars,
She is marigold and roses, A song sung with old friends, The warmth of conversation, With loved ones at day's end. She is folded flags and medals, And a candle on the porch,