this page of leaves blowing smoke of the burning woman inside her convenient misery - this, her offspring failure to launch - the babes of her black bossom bugeoning with brokenness delinquent - now does her pride purloined of a place In the world deliver under death the kindred kindled blood - the substance of her support now darker . drained the black lillies of her bed soon broken of spirit smouldering - she wishes the furnace to burn away all but love - the world of her nature still nourishing the swarthy children of her caligraphic countinance forever distracted and distraught - producing naught but despair and d i s a p p e a r i n g
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soulsurvivor (C) 2/11/2014
I think of whatever I create as a sort of a child
I have no child to carry on after me so I hope my work will be held in perpetuaty -