Spring, that whose every year is its last
and whose death always is the promise of its birth:
you pink between,
you softly to part,
you to come of flowers lathered,
you are a mystery.A cute curving mystery,
of slightly undeath.
a curt cutting mystery,
of increasing unhealth.
you're whose *** the mound of wreaking,
the confluence of hips,
and the pourn of roses, gardens.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
Spring, that whose every year is its last
and whose death always is the promise of its birth:
you pink between,
you softly to part,
you to come of flowers lathered,
you are a mystery.A cute curving mystery,
of slightly undeath.
a curt cutting mystery,
of increasing unhealth.
you're whose *** the mound of wreaking,
the confluence of hips,
and the pourn of roses, gardens.
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