Rouche

Victorious Orchard {of} Filled {in} Oblivion, My lined Bitter Fountain {of} drowned Light {in} soft trantrum. Loafing Homeland of Marble Smut. Your Closed eyes smelling weeping And Still On certain solitary sheets, circumstances, singing roll through the streets And, as well, Many other Moaning happy Things of this Sort. Fallen Things, Medaled acts of Tenderness, Quickly Followed By Retreating bite marks, hard and rough through my Plastic Shoulder. Covered with Lust Blood and Death, my Shattered Lip of Threatens. Clothing me with Shirts of red and defeated mourning, I have only the Dawn, with you. For the Devil has your Eyes By Evening. -thend-