entangle Death of a Rose Flowing rain patters at the blades. Arching perfume isn't bothered by reflection. Others strike carelessly into the cratered mud, Betraying sensual webs dusted by the years, sifted by a blazen haze. STILLS OF BLINDED SILENCE The purple light beckons acress the dirty water. The rain is a rememberance of the Roman nights. Whispering of decades without substance, intagible to your ears. Baked clay is wishing for stinging wetness, Again believing that the circumstance might balance itself. With layered ashes, will the flame erupt? 031015 what's it to you? who go blather from