Benedicting smiles half-catching glints of icy muses. How now as they sew each fragrant pot heads together in a sighing lap. The ways, the ways of the happy poet. He (or she) who waits to test the waters, bloodred they may be as eroticism tends to flay. Images of tender eyes that pick a stale glare into the darkness. Water finds the fiend with his red hot lava lamp. twisted shopping bag in his time-worn grasp. Ten thrashes over there is no devasting love to bemuse, me. I have to dwell within the brain cells to catch my fading soul. Words twisting this way and that as we spy each violent arm. It's pries the innocence away from oh that angelface with shying eyes, who once gave money to a tramp (he took his life by overdosing) But she would never know she would never know- for every naive sentiment that she held within her palm: a sacred flower. No reason. Just because. Euphoria we called her- the symbol of lost youth.
And each flower died, as inevitably it must, but that which remained was more than just dust! It was thee! And thou art as an entity that lives in eternal splendour. And I am heartened to greatness by the death of thine flowers! thank you.
