Father Out Of Time And Other Stories

Oblique Rose

The razor blade
is sharp as can be, as it
slices my neck.
To think that life is such
pain in the blouse.

Indeed fair
Mme, for death very kind
as it's cut throat.
I savor the blood and
tears from neck to cheeks.

Oblique.
It cuts through petite neck.
Oblique
is the blade that slices swift,
gently yet with much vigor.
Your face is my Rose.
Oblique.

We are dust,
the midnight is drawing near.
We are dust,
as the gears are rusting.
The gears so rusting cranking
until we are no more.
We are dust.

And with our blouse,
for now we must perish.

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