The time. Has gone. I'm starting to understand the overly condescending parents.
I don't have much to say, it's all somewhere else, but I can give you another shit-pile of a poem, written somewhere around Portland, I believe.
pretty little thing she was
humming invitations
trapping creatures in the pain
of her fascination
tangled locks of pitch-black hair
pure grey were her eyes
her perfect ears had never once
heard the word "goodbye"
no one could resist her voice
try, and you will fail
but you might just make her smile
if yours was other than a wail
i had come in for a song
she asked for me to stay
enquired where my brother was
i said he'd gone away
although power was her own
i knew she had a heart
naíve enough was she to think
that love was more like art
her sorrow entered melodies
our voices came entwined
feeding hungry souls alike
the darkest, richest wine
even as she pulled me in
i thought i might escape
her fingers traced my trembling lips
t'was already too late.
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