And I’d still love As I’d lay here, not with strife Not dead. But I breathe And I’d know, not as a ghost, But as a soul Washed away.
Tag: Chances
Natural.
My dear! Enwrapped around, Senses displayed—I had thought the reality, The drought and rings of nymphs, And I, and I so foolishly pestered, Thatched by those dead, those pranced, At the sight of the endless bloom, And I have remained in my quiet room.
Pseudopsychosis. 