Chronicles of her blues
About my fragility to wean away from your scent is not unknown to you,and yet,
You spread your wild chest on my black soot hands.
About my eccentricity all is known while your frail lips brushes mine,and yet,
my cold wrinkled skins will never grow tulips around the soils you walk.
Will you stop bemoan for me as I lie to be eaten by the moths you have winged ?