The snow on your eyelids that curtsy with age
is freezing the stares and tearing the swings
The bitter is hard in the warmth of your skin
disease with familiar caresses
Withdrawing from splendor and draw your decay
among all their triumphs and jaded wars
Being angry at blazing circles of sun
that screams as the crown arises
One cannot beget all the sins that you owe
to people of paradise magic
Intending answer passion and form
with foreign rationalizations
Primroses are the Druids that look
upon masks of pleasure that flicker with doubt
Wind restless is a fate that is simultaneously feared
to advance in demand to be recognized
The river shall flow through hollow green faces
of caricatures resentment etch out of the tunnel
Wellington sphinxes are sleepy poor birds
the classic are sensitive failures
With worshipping we can cling to the doubts of your heart
lying there in wait of your angel
Moan and ravish from dawn to dusk
the are voracious young lovers