When I am lonely, I think of death.
When I think of death...I'm lonely
I suppose this error will continue.
I'll walk into each grey morning,
delighted by the frost that is death,
and the trees that stand alone,
in it's mists.
When I thought I'd met my true love
I was lonely.
But it was the love in her body that was lonely.
That error went on & on.
Mornin's I would kiss her cold lips,
devoid of altruistic passion.
But the nights...the nights,
her body dripping with those mists.
This is the error that fascinates.
I suppose too, you are secretly lonely.
Thinkin' of death, thinkin'
of love
I'd like please, to leave a flower on your window.
Just one cold flower, whose beauty
Will leave you inconsolable all day.
The secret of poetry
is cruelty.
