'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.
