Post by luceluna on Feb 14, 2002 3:53:50 GMT -5
Sun, to the point of nausea.
"Taste -"
Spin three muscular, deeply-drawn passings;
Heart flutters, sweat:
Coma.
Despise me. Succubi
Are calling on the wind;
Festering from a ghost train's sinister hands -
(You half-own) hands I love.
Bright rooms, train tracks,
Bedded illness and too little reticence.
It is a deathly prophecy, and overlaying it,
Unwaxed and snowily yearning,
Is you:
Curly, fresh, unharmed.
"Taste -"
Spin three muscular, deeply-drawn passings;
Heart flutters, sweat:
Coma.
Despise me. Succubi
Are calling on the wind;
Festering from a ghost train's sinister hands -
(You half-own) hands I love.
Bright rooms, train tracks,
Bedded illness and too little reticence.
It is a deathly prophecy, and overlaying it,
Unwaxed and snowily yearning,
Is you:
Curly, fresh, unharmed.
