Found Poetry 639

5/26/21

my walls are white, of bone
facing you but from a concealing distance
my skin paint merely ornamental
it has a few bare spots
the flaw of edges
I feel it as an anchor sometimes
or protrusive as a warrior's spear
in an army of one
that has no chance in battle

This poem was created from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. Click here to get Leaves of Grass.

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