She fell into a dream only to wake; find her sheet wet with pagan tears.Winter was woven into her teeth;even with happiness…
This is the pantomime of a day.
If Fate would lend a hand,then we would be gone
I seek a strange perfectionwith a fervour that risesthe less control I have.
Ophelia spoke her head aloud, as she ran her hands through an empty bed.
Tired feet mark the passageof stymied wanderingsover hewn boardsand pummeled iron