Linda

By Nolan

Thu, 23 Oct 2014

2 comments

1 likes

William Blake

Oh Rose, thou art sick;

The invisible worm

That flies in the night

In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy;

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

The curse of roses loves you

Pity pity you pure young angel

The curse that makes sick and dead

Has fallen on your pious head

The sickness that eats at your flesh

Makes you skin old

And your heart cold

Permalink Submitted by blackjack-davey on Thu, 2014-10-23 23:45

are you Linda Nolan?

Permalink Submitted by Nolan on Fri, 2014-10-24 12:44

No I'm not Linda Nolan nor Linda anything else. It's just a poem.

Cheers & Nolan