You have to work through the vines once more,
you have to pinch your pale blood again,
you have to; yes you have to.
The stones alongside and the maze of northern winds would get me to her…
Weeds on her eyelashes, history forbidden alcohol oozing from her fickle nipples,
hair of civilized turmoil all along the curved and painted ass…
The journey towards death from her addiction would absolutely be a glorious one.