Dip me back, our last move in this waltz of death.
And as you tip me, let the blood spill from my eyes and onto the floor,
painting it red like my lips I so wished you'd lay yours upon.
Poem 17
Dip me back, our last move in this waltz of death.
And as you tip me, let the blood spill from my eyes and onto the floor,
painting it red like my lips I so wished you'd lay yours upon.
