Lovely LadiesLovely ladies are we. Innocent and pure Fresh, fragrant just like daises That mist over the funerals. Cover overThe burnings of the bodiesTo expose that we areFrail and insecure,Sickly, our brittle bonesWalk the streets. Dropping, fallingBreaking. Bleeding. Pleading. Lord above our cursed heads, Bless us from this dreaded plague. Lord above, please hear our prayer, Cleanse our souls from this despair.Rosary and Rosemary, Pray to get us through this curse, But prayerCan only make it worse.We carry the cross Above our heart,Bathe in the waterThat set us apartFrom life and death,We shall come.Limber in limbo,Crawling to run.I look in the mirror...This dreaded thing clings to my skinLike rain,Crushes my ribsLike my corset, Clogs my throat,Like this acrid smoke.Lovely ladies are we, Bursting boils cover us, Bruises further destroy us, Death turns us to ash, then dust.
Rain Drops And BloodAfter it was over, his senses came back to him. The sensation of the cold, sharp blade invading his chest sent him into a state of motionlessness; crashing onto the sidewalk, wet with rain. Now that the knife was removed, his body had allowed him to return to consciousness. It seemed like a slow progress. First, his sense of touch returned. He felt the cold rain drops pelting his skin, soaking his clothes and rinsing the blood from his wound. Every rain drop that made contact with his wound made him wince, but soon gave him cold and soothing relief. He felt the warmth of his blood mix with the cold of the rain under his fingertips on the sidewalk, then slowly flow away from his body. He played with the watered down blood, drawing circles in the grittiness of the sidewalk with his index finger. Next came his smell. The aroma of mud, wind, and blood mixed into a evocative perfume he secretly enjoyed. Then, his hearing returned. Slowly, the sound of the rain hitting the ground inva
The Tower StoryHere they are again,Another witch and a young child,Opening my doors again,Girl's about to exiled.16 years have passedAnd she's still within my rooms;Singing, crying, venting and whiningAbout her non-existent groom.I should be used to this,It's the 300th time in a rowThat I've had another princessWithin my trusty, old stones.But no, this one is different,More annoying then the rest.Please, somebody far, far awayTake this damsel in distress!~Oh, woe is me!How useful can I be,Locking children from withinFor their non-existent sins.Oh, woe is me!How grateful I will beWhen her idiot-in-tinRescues her and my long-gone sanity!~There again, she goes,Peering out my windowsHoping her imagined knightWill come by the morning-lightAnd again, she cries!"Her love life is a lie!";, she said.Lord, give me the strengthBefore I crumble on her precious little head.I'm getting tired of the same old story,About