Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
The final breath is entreated by the breaths of wind, the sky returns again as the stormy clouds depart. Droplets of water, from seas all over Earth Puddles of mud which use to be dirt. Centuries of creation all about, Weep as fast as the swimming trout. The morning birth of the turtle doves, peaceful and sad to see the dark night. The atmosphere of peace in might, As it pecks its way out of shell. Beneath the bone of its mother, She nurtures without a bother. The evening loss of dogs of war. At last the threat returns, ****** turned out of sores. Teacher sick of burns. Fire of skies tormenting, Precipitate of dirt fomenting. The freedom of the snake is not so seditious, It feeds on the nest of the turtle dove. Protect O mother-bird your love, Jettison the hatred deep inside, And **** the snake with severely brutal guile. The final wind is shakened by the quakes of ground. Hurt is one dove but there is three. Enough to go around, Eaten as food by thee. Hurt I'm, Hurt I be, nature you sicken me. Nature you sicken me.
0
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
The Morning O' Gentleness Sense
The final breath is entreated by the breaths of wind, the sky returns again as the stormy clouds depart. Droplets of water, from seas all over Earth Puddles of mud which use to be dirt. Centuries of creation all about, Weep as fast as the swimming trout. The morning birth of the turtle doves, peaceful and sad to see the dark night. The atmosphere of peace in might, As it pecks its way out of shell. Beneath the bone of its mother, She nurtures without a bother. The evening loss of dogs of war. At last the threat returns, ****** turned out of sores. Teacher sick of burns. Fire of skies tormenting, Precipitate of dirt fomenting. The freedom of the snake is not so seditious, It feeds on the nest of the turtle dove. Protect O mother-bird your love, Jettison the hatred deep inside, And **** the snake with severely brutal guile. The final wind is shakened by the quakes of ground. Hurt is one dove but there is three. Enough to go around, Eaten as food by thee. Hurt I'm, Hurt I be, nature you sicken me. Nature you sicken me.
Written by
Canadian
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem