A chill of Styx water runs through my heart,
Arrows cannot reach it, I will not let them.

To do so is to die,
Please understand.

Shots of Phlegethon stopped reaching my tears,
Too many times have I gone mad from it's flames.

I would rather forget,
All that icy pain.

When I die from this curse of long-lost touch,
Send me to corrode on the banks of the Lethe.

What is the flower you were born into?
The scarlet carnations of the new year?
Perhaps the daffodils of the birth seer?
Is it bright honeysuckle you're drawn to?

Or does the warm aster of death make do?
Maybe even narcissus and it's leer?
Well whatever the case, it is not mere,
Character, but rather how love moves so.

You see, my flower was the wilted rose.
I watered that thing and tried (I really did),
Yet nothing came of it, and so I stare,
At the gnawed hole in its roots,
At the salted and maimed dirt,
At the leaking watering can,
And the wilted roses.

Here's what they don't tell you:
There's a dead space in the flowerbeds.

I tattered your Yellow Wallpaper,
And trenched along your Groves.
To find that little special place,
Creeping amidst your Prose.

I scouted your Lands in search,
For what I found most dear.
But frankly I never found much,
That Gem was always there.

So as I walk my fickled Wood,
I realized something good.
I really never understood,
And I never really could.

Light Eddies And Venerable Elm,
Meant Everything.

Every morning a beaming carmine penetrates my brain
unbeknownst to their perilous call
a smiling bird and a white heal all.

Violates me at my eyes
from green chasing lies
from wicked placed disguise.

Pencils of light at three trips
Here's the stalker of stalkers that haunt my pre dream routine.

Every evening a lustrous crimson punctures my lungs
unbeknownst to their unsafe swath
a quiet bird and a paper moth.

Vexes me at my eyes
from yellow following lies
from haughty placed disguise.

Pencils of light at three trips
Here's the lurker of lurkers that submerge my pre dream routine.

Every night a hazy velvet pierces my heart
unbeknownst to their loving provider
a dead bird and a snow drop spider.

Visits me at my eyes
from red moving lies
from stoic placed disguise.

Pencils of light at three trips
the finest sliver of silence you can imagine.

In the past month have you set up a shrine,
Where you were simply looking for a sign?
Just get Extra-Death™!
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On a broken hill,
A sad smile with two slit wrists,
Eats at his own flesh.

You see it hears like rain that never stops pounding Light out the tires on sleching ground step stop skip to the next Light tires of holding the umbrella to rain on see gray dark squares shining yellow and my eyes my eyelashes my eye-irises are now cold gales of hair my eyes smart to Light tires on the ground lay shadow rain daps head my hair tires of the wind Light stroke of metal lines the tree tangles my eye my hair in my tongue daps of Light on road tires which looks and hears and smells and feels and licks like rain you see.