The soft grey wave
is trickling in over the
Rose Hill that never
Bows, scowls, weeps or thinks.
Never sinks, never drowns or howls.

I see you weeping at her feet.
You move over her and blanket
her breast.
The Rose Hill stays bold.
And the cold is nothing new to her.
Soft and grey, it crashes down.
Flooding her feet. Fickled  and
Tampered, soft and grey , it recedes.

Rose, you are blushing.
It is all in your breast.
Death is in your chest and you bare it,
and lock it.
Corp cells circulate with mad cells
in your mad house breast.

Soft and grey it passes.
All that is left is a sky blue grin.