History Will Always Have Photographs
That red mouth, chipped and peeling. I take these pictures to hide my face. Sitting here, looking pretty, while the world is burning outside. These are the unheard songs, their winter lyrics translated from my dark reverie. It is the shadowed corner of the long room. Please, this land of illusions is becoming too much. The cold ebony sculptures peer down on where I sleep, where I toss from side to side in linen sheets. He loved his lovely wife. She drinks from a thin slice of jasper and blood drips down her wrist. She lives in nervous suspense; this sudden imprisonment dominates. This life has spent years and months to craft a pretty woman with beautiful veins and temples. I just have this feeling, as I'm walking drunken through this maze at night. I wipe a few drops of cold sweat from my forehead and rest my hand on a dead tree. This is a much more dangerous illusion. You do not doubt the sacred attachment you have to him. However, you were soon in the blacke
