The result of literature infiltrating and winding itself so intrinsically around the mind as to be no longer distinctly distinguishable: the original and the implanted.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Murder of One
I dreamt I saw you walking up a hillside in the snow
Casting shadows on the winter sky as you stood there counting crows
One for sorrow
Two for joy
Three for girls and four for boys
Five for silver
Six for gold and
Seven for a secret never to be told
There's a bird that nests inside you
Sleeping underneath your skin
When you open up your wings to speak
I wish you'd let me in
All your life is such a shame
All your love is just a dream
Open up your eyes
You can see the flames
of your wasted life
You should be ashamed