the_frozen_state
Death of a Rose I am in,
it begs of me the answers to the questions of all.

And I reply that all is nothing that I cannot achieve.

It brings it's gifts,
smiles at me and beckons,
with that crooked finger.

It makes me want to follow,
and yet I don't,
for something in me precludes my passage.

It, or me, borrows this time alloted to the senses, begs that although a torture feeds itself, a chain breaks in another room.

I wish to dance with others, never mindful of their past, considering only this projected balance.

And in this I remain,
And in this I regret,
And in this I regress.

The_Frozen_State
061122
what's it to you?
who go
blather
from