Her beauty must be managed with a glove,
For beauty is a thing she’s guilty of,
Blooming without a mirror in her hand,
Something the rose is like to understand,
Whose beauty must be partnered with the thorn,
Whose purity is ultimately torn.
The rose belongs to the ephemeral,
As her life is to the ethereal.
With eyelids, closed and shuttered, by a nail, The sense of sight, when other senses fail, Is now covered with ash, so freshly laid, The...
I am weak. No one can help me fight this. I feel, I feel too much, most of the time, And she is like me. I cannot dismiss Her tall...
The ancients breathed inside me, I recall That child, who heard them whisper quietly, Standing like giants when I was so small, Those...
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