"It's not really poetry, but its pretty," he said

As he raises his voice, she lowers her head

'It makes my heart heavy, you're lonely, I think

Oh, Rose, you're sad, I suppose."



"Look in her bed and she's bound to be sleeping.

She's lying there dead. - No, she's breathing."



Furious Rose, with your opiate eyes,

your languorous hum, that tone of surprise.

I've heard energy in adversity.

Your smile: the soul of witchery.

You're not running away,

you're not running - are you?



Lyrically longing, she's tearing the words from the page

She's fearfully seething

"Bring me your blessings, a prayer or a new pen.

- You don't know what I need."



"Look in my bed and I'm bound to be sleeping

I'm lying there dead, but I'm breathing.



And I'm barely balancing as it is

And I don't want to drown in my dreams

Bring me wild plums and agrimony

- I bet you don't even know what that means."



Furious Rose, with your opiate eyes,

your languorous hum, that tone of surprise.

I've heard energy in adversity.

Your smile: the soul of witchery.

You're not running away,

you're not running - are you?



Gingerly peering, over his shoulder, removed herself from the room.

She's terribly freezing, she always knows when to go