Shooting Planets
Within the burning heart of molten rocks, Great pressures forced your brilliance to shine; Inclusions marred your body with their pocks, A brownish hue now
"this is sixth form poetry, not Keats or Yeats"
Within the burning heart of molten rocks, Great pressures forced your brilliance to shine; Inclusions marred your body with their pocks, A brownish hue now
Marked out as something that did not belong, An oddball with a number not a name; A newborn whose hereditary was wrong, And with ancestry