Her lips, parched like rumpled paper bags,
Dregs dribbling down her neck,
Breath leaching in if only for an instant,
As bittersweet tongue unloads its final throes:
"A martyr you have made me,
For these wounds, they weep for such grand hauteur,
Those billows scouring with every curl the name my parents granted me;
For it was plain as day, the writing on the wall,
Coltish yet uncanny, those maundering swirls;
Howbeit, blinded by the profundity of your kindliness,
Lurking at the door with such grave intensity,
Sincerity burgeoning like sweet chrysanthemum,
As kisses colluded in a lawless love;
O what...