Milly

Here's the reality, why on yellow set stone, behind a crushed serendipity, do you suffer whispers, in hushed magenta tones, light yet sorely kissed, a colour of the Belfrey, flush within your bones, like rain across the sea, can't you sense this, you say you've been honed, to numb away the miss, a lovers' voice tolls free, no one really gets over, a lonely time saying please, being in Gethsemane, that’s what prison is for, illicit sisters' whisky, you drink as your own.