Saturday, August 6, 2011

Caress the umbuilical.

Does she wilt with the flowers upon her dresser?
In the time given men will bleed black standing
in her presence
She is in no man's land
The willows blow the scent of crimson down her spine
Her eyes of yellow
Shall they pant and scream
Does she dance anymore
dance in fields where poppies lay
Upon gloomy tides she thirsts for air
air filled with bitter indulgence
Run away you pitiful breed
She'll cut your eyes out and watch
with no emotion
Carelessly you will fall and a mirror of light shall
bind your ankles upon which you take flight.

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