My lavender is burnt and loveless; Painful, devoured and helpless, Weak by the side of its dying corpse; Solitary yet at an age so young.
My lavender cries in its daydreams; Giggles in sorrowful screams, And faints and dies beneath fun daylight; As though tortured and wounded by the sun.
My lavender wriggles in isolation; Like those ragged clothes in damnation And there's no more death between heaven and hell-- For none is alive, nor breathes to live.
My lavender longs not to drink nor die; But it sleeps by the hushed setting moon, Trapped behind the tail of his lethal winds; Blinded by too many mysteries, unseen.
My lavender peels its own skinny bones; Its quaint lust cut and fiercely torn, Teased by the cold trees of summertime; Faded by the sweet whispers of time.
My lavender eats its own bloodless veins; And its hateful friendless world, Having laughed at anonymous walls Marveled at unspoken poems.
My lavender drinks of its own soul; And to love now is but to have none, With her autumn love stolen by fate; All her gripping sonnets are far too late.