and in this darkness
i become captivated
of the noise outside
that would be only background
but for the stillness in here
that echoes
each innocuous creek
of this old house

its not fair to put trust in a rose
for it shall soon wilt and die
and even in its most glorious moments,
its adorning thorns await a prick.

the smoke in your mouth
say what you need to say
i'll take it as fair
and pretend like i'm listening

the stain on my blouse
refuses to wash away
the smoldering fire
in ashes and dust we lay