"it's not really poetry but it's pretty," he said.

as he raises his voice, she lowers her head.

"it make my heart heavy, you're lonely, i think.

oh rose, your'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 no what that means."



furious rose, with your opiate eyes.

and your languorous hum, that tone of surprise.

i've heard the energy in adversity.

your smile: the soul of witchery.

you're not running away,

youre not running - are you?



gingerly peering, over his shoulder, removed herself from the room.

she's terribly freezing, she always knows when to go.