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

Above.

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,

Alone.