Parks and the wing lies in the grave under the white clouds cover the sky in blue. Around her two angels stand guard sleepwalkers. she died for the next moment. she died of music. Seeds drip from their hands. Purple flowers sprout from the ground. Her steps still mark the dark earth. Her long black dress houses weeds.
Oh, suck my soul,
This will love the lower belly ...
Cupid hit me neurotic eyes
Measured in this madness
My back, my way ...
Intensely red hair is gray where everything is black, is cold. Glow in your eyes. Pale smile excavated, found and plucked from inside your mirror. Presence is enough space inhospitable. Fully fragments of angels, dreams, tears, white, black and love. Barefoot in volcanic eruptions spew in body weight that goes through the air. Just wanted to fly, through the door at the back of grave. It is the winter arrives.
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