A rose sitting on it's bushWith thorns down the stemThat makes a finger goDrip drip dripRed splattered paintIn the winter snowDrip drip dripThe pain will stopOnce you let goOf the roseThats holds the pain of red splattered paint
I would not feign a single sighNor weep a single tear for thee:The soul within these orbs burns dry;A desert spreads where love should be.I would not be a worm to crawlA writhing suppliant in thy way;For love is life, is heaven, and allThe beams of an immortal day.For sighs are idle things and vain,And tears for idiots vainly fall.I would not kiss thy face againNor round thy shining slippers crawl.Love is the honey, not the bee,Nor would I turn its sweets to gallFor all the beauty found in thee,Thy lily neck, rose cheek, and all.
Outside the house an ash-tree hung its terriblewhips,And at night when the wind arose, the lash of the treeShrieked and slashed the wind, as a ship'sWeird rigging in a storm shrieks hideously.Within the house two voices arose in anger, a slenderlashWhistling delirious rage, and the dreadful soundOf a thick lash booming and bruising, until itdrownedThe other voice in a silence of blood, 'neath the noiseof the ash.
"Heavenly Father" -- take to theeThe supreme iniquityFashioned by thy candid HandIn a moment contraband --Though to trust us -- seems to usMore respectful -- "We are Dust" --We apologize to theeFor thine own Duplicity --