Learn more about other poetry terms
Death is slow Like a sick flower with bleak petals that no longer grow One by one, the petals begin to fall Unable to avoid the final death call
You tell me I'm unique and they say I'm a freak. Excuse me, sir; but who gave any of you permission to speak?
The clergy plays their swan song You cry out it's all wrong No one notices over their song Leather skin the casket holds The corpse didn't even get to see twelve years old