My Rose

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My Rose


Will you see me through these webs I have drawn?

The rose


Withers under the pen. 

Learned hands drag me down 

And she leaves me



Now pity me, a spinster conceiving

In the dark a crook

Child, and all the while counting

The hours with my spare hand.


Oh it is time, that vicious – 

Wrench the homunculus heart

I am done, I am done, 

I want nothing of it.


The needles break here,

Leave hurts I must find 

My own river, 

My sweet anaesthesia,







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