Paint on the hands of a sinner, and blood on the hands of an artist.
Lust on the face of the latter, and shock on the face of the farthest (gone)
Both regretful, both now sated - both quite tearful, all feelings stated
Love unto death, and death unto love
The painter's blood on the wings of a dove.
Repeat.
//
Pillbug-blues, the twice-bent thrice-sent seeds in the mulch of these wormy earths so close to Hell, and a stone or two to break up the brown monotony.
Maybe an offshoot or two/five/none - but they'll all die soon, when they realize they can't drink the sun at this angle.
Hmm.
Better dig the shovel in.
//
the graves of Graes, thrice stood apart
great Burnham Woods held fast, depart
from root and stem, foretelling death
of the fool, the fake, the lie Macbeth
