inasmuch as she's concerned?
Ruing hands 'ave killed, day-spring's thrill,
what's left to be unlearnt?
Lots! Teach this naive rat nice,
don't let spill the poison;
for in tepid summers, it eats weather thin,
slicing within her hamstring.
Now he won't relent, her will to win,
broken in their vacuous themes;
a means to wither hopeless clutter,
its her efficacious whims, screaming.
Evening disquiet, disarray climbs us down,
canvassing the miserable watercolor gray.
A frame still lays, unequally smeared in skin,
and charcoal slaying mutual chagrin.
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