Your strings bury deep, delivering crimson tones. A loud, gravel voice sounding songs of a dead man for the dead man. The Thinker lost to time; the Witch hums on in melancholy.
The Flower Girl Says Her Prayer
I feel your heart by the way you fall Clasped hands, injected needle, through your call Your eyes of sea, creep into me I reach out and then you flee Beyond where I can reach Toss me, Turn me, Hurt me Burn the world with your embers, sin Turn the knife, key my heart Clasped … Continue reading The Flower Girl Says Her Prayer
The cylinders sit brewing their concoctions and potions. The witch waits nearby, taking in the sounds of a bustling city tavern. Music, lights, merriment. Different, but beautiful.