Atop a stage so bare a song escapes from a virgin's cracked lips. Twas written for a creature in whom she loves, yet her glossed wide eyes fail to see a fragile face amidst the crowd. Raising her stentorian voice, she pleads someone to listen, but Erie devours and travelers trample the echo until all her lover receives is nonsense. Surprisingly, her already heavy veins make room for chagrin. Acceptance that you've heard nothing plants the seeds of respite and leads her offstage with naked shoulders.
Is it me or is it her in whom you wish to destroy? Am I truly this intuitive or is it just paranoia? Violence is not a fancy among the educated nor the warrior, so who is the vain one, is it I or is it you?
Is it me or is it her in whom you wish to destroy? Am I truly this intuitive or is it just paranoia? Violence is not a fancy among the educated nor the warrior, so who is the vain one, is it I or is it you?
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