Was it on a long time that sat I on the iron rod again - not cold nor dry too dry was it - did my clothes keep my skin from touching the grey surface anyway. So may I ask, "did I sit on it actually?"
Have I another story to tell you, you my lady was I born out of, some things to recall and reconcile with. You, my fair madame, you whose blood stained my body so, and stained am differently now;
Have I another song to sing, some curves to swerve over -
must I not stumble upon me feet for will you be crushed on the other side.
You see, oh mother of mine! Was I no greater an observer in your lap than I am now with thighs barely covered. So can I ask if I may return to thy arms - a place, an abode defying heaven of your own aftermath, a safe sanctum for the whole of me?;
Have I also got some sights to sketch, all that I saw. You won't close thy eyne, will thee?
'Twas a spectacle for one to see. I admit that I became a stranger to blindness.
An hour as holy as that has not been for me to live, let alone moments of my own from those seconds in my solitary solitude.
Here my heart has a story now. Oh mother, look how restive it is, hopping inside to shake the child out of me!
What story you ask. Oh you do, and 'tis astonishment I read thy query with for hath I never seen thy lips judder with such passion afore. I will tell thee. But will thou tell me more.
A cliche must hath it become - my rope of hirsute coir -
'Tis rope tied tight across half of the pavement which do my feet trudge past day after day now.
Oh mother! but does it not kill, does it not scratch my palms like my nails do, does
keep me company when against thy hearth, am I only lying bare upfront the fire. Indeed, let the...