| «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 but she’s breathing.»
|
| Furious Rose, with your opiate eyes.
|
| Your languorous hum, that tone of surprise.
|
| I’ve heard energy and 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.»
|
| «You 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, wild plums and agrimony
|
| Oh, I, I bet you don’t even know what that means. |
| No."
|
| 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,
|
| You’re not running, oh.
|
| You’re not running away,
|
| You’re not running, oh.
|
| 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. |