To Singe Vein

With no one in anguish,

lush words to be tread on

fire-for-pain,

and in repeating the dreaming,

I'd just ever wished for

the truer lead rope

 

 

waiting...

how can I

contend to it?

How can I feel for it

anymore?

When one caresses that fine line,

I can't help but figure out why,

you're a fool to be, and I,

the foolish figment of your

imagination.