one day it followed a maiden
scenting vital, from the halo
of vernal hair
her mortality speaks
through every twig crunched
a winter walk
the munching sounds of earth
arable, young
like cosy wrapped limbs
sensing the unwholesome
turning trembling
what
what is it?
death beseechingly said to this:

make me pretty
please

01/07/2013

Posted on 01/07/2013
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