Elana

She hates the dull why, the pleadings of reason, sought night after night, but where is the line, when fire turns the seasons, sedated by wine, what rights her thoughts, churn hours her pleading, cloud days her zero, who brings the time, to the walls her keening, when you have the knife, which flower bought, regular as the heating, her angel face caught, the hair spilled fine, beneath the moon’s easel, she sings out her lies, no suggestion of treason.