’it’s not really poetry, but it’s pretty,’ he said.
As he raises his voice, she lowers her head.
’it makes my heart heavy, you’re lonely, I think.
Oh, rose, you’re sad, I suppose.’
’look in her bed and she’s bound to be sleeping.
She’s lying there dead. - no, she’s breathing.’
Furious rose, with your opiate eyes,
Your languorous hum, that tone of surprise
I’ve heard energy in adversity.
Your smile: the soul of witchery.
You’re not running away,
You’re not running - are you?
Lyrically longing, she’s tearing the words from the page.
She’s fearfully seething.
’bring me your blessings, a prayer, or a new pen.
- you don’t know what I need.’
’look in my bed and I’m bound to be sleeping,
I’m lying there dead, but I’m breathing.
And I’m barely balancing as it is,
And I don’t want to drown in my dreams
Bring me wild plums and agrimony
I bet you don’t even know what that means.’
Furious rose with your opiate eyes,
Your languorous hum, that tone of surprise.
I’ve heard energy in adversity.
Your smile: the soul of witchery.
You’re not running away,
You’re not running - are you?
Gingerly peering, over his shoulder, removed herself from the room.
She’s terribly freezing, she always knows when to go.
