I find comfort in the news Be it typhoons or drones I feel like a 100 year old Camus For he was a miserable little raccoon Or should I say Morrissey? But the bipolar king is lost at sea! I think of Sylvia Plath and her oven Incinerated in a jar or in a coffin?
I will mention roses in a second But first, wear your veil May I eat your cheeks? I’m your psychopath with style
We bathed in herbs together The pale ******* that shone A reoccurring dream of two moons I believe in reincarnation bosoms, as the lunar eyes of an owl
Stars, rain, coffee, cigarettes and music Few clichés, I forgot about your roses One day I’ll strike the balance between rhymes and passion