There are the rumors,
sickly believed,
I can't soothe her,
with her turns
Her lovely sweet face,
pores of photography nice,
And yet, I see her wings flapping,
Am I dreaming or tripping?

I never know any more,
don't count up the scores,
and the several doors
I won't enter for ever more.
An evening for what was for
I'm sick of being a demon's *****.
A contention upon her shores.......
Who am I but washed ashore.