a wash of ardence - in October

October sky tore the darkness into, a cold touch

in the alcove of where Beethoven played a symphony;

a grainy cast came upon the heat of summer;

she twirled in gowns of elaborate fibers

imported to wrap the sopranos tight to known

fame.

said she to the dusty audience, ‘a visual study

always misses her subjects’ i live to breath

your musty scent; fooled by you wisdom and age.

the wood lay burnt on the fires

Un faute de mine) & in throatily sighs

‘i souhait à Être son de somber choses’

her red-wine lips curve under bible verses

torn and taped together: marcher sur le rythme cardiaque;

her thoughts.

myself watched as winter descended

snowflakes landed in between clasped fingers:

Beauté est acheté par arrêt de l'œil,
Utter'd pas de base de la vente de chapmen langues:
Je suis moins fier de vous entendre dire à ma valeur

women made sin: le coeur va sans le toucher

read for me the book, i missed the exchange of such passions;

the fruits of the willow is only missed by our temptations

of the Opera.

flames lick the wood as wounds tended,

said wise to the old, i watch the acapella of course strings

such were made of himself — he believed flames sears

the flesh as a spirit cleansed, but contradicted his faith.

i played out an on thought—‘Ophelia mad with passion’

too cruel antics; love will go on without my physical manifestation

just proof of my empty meaning in the world—