I think I can paint this world for you now. From decadence and disorderly life to death and blank slates. Something I own, expressed dearfully to you as if I have always owned it. Perhaps remembered by no one in the end, but for now, maybe even just a glimpse of light from the murk and more, just to prove it can exist. even if it fades within the hour.

Sincerly,
       Rosier.

Dear Death,

Powdered dreams I can take looking up during sleep, pine trees and white buildings, flowers crying the rain does fall, 


Where I might live, little teeth, bated breath. 


Where words take you gently along with them, staircase, tower of words 


Remarks, plastic bottles. Regarded paper soggy weight and twisted spines, hang your furniture from the ceiling, lay on the floor, turn out the lights and listen to them spin. 


Litost 2