It must hurt to knowI am your most beautiful regretBut you wouldn't realize thatCause I am a museum full of artThe landscape of your favorite placeBut you always have your eyes shut
When my mum said I deserve betterI snap to your defense out of habitHe still loves me I shoutShe looks at me with wise eyesThe way a mum looks at her daughterFeeling it is the kind of thingEven she cannot fixIt means nothing to me if he loves youIf he cannot do a single wretched thing about it
Be mineDon't be hersTrust meDon't trust the wrong onesTake my handDon't leave me hangingLet me lead youNot push you awayLearn my languageDon't misunderstand me
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.