she lives over a cup of
mourning where remorse holds
her life, only guilt gives her back
'til drunken eyes swell to
obfuscate her dying from; she breaks the latent fumes of
narcissus and witness an
anachronistic spring, for perhaps
these aster bloom with
pretending rains; so soon to
witness a miraculous rather strange budding roses. but still
she gaits only as hatred tells her
so, her footsteps leaving a trace of
darkness. just for awhile, she says,
she whims to water our searing
speech; of blurred visions of the backwarding clouds- she is what
she was, now drunkness reveals-
a meaning between the lines of
sketched metaphysical art now
evanecsing from stagnant
cluthces; valued as vanished. let her die now, as narcissus pleads
and confesses to an ever empty
pith.