Lady of Death, the scowl of the night-
Leadth thee to barbed spite upon thy twain,
How ye purloin thoughts
of trite liaisons-
Maybe ye could loveth more
if ye could speak in poetic tongue-
Woe, your spirit is broken and
heart asunder, your dead rose
will never grow beneath frozen
snow, warm breaths, and soft
whispers, will melt away more
than the gods of love.
No comments:
Post a Comment