[Ethan Leon]: 613."FATHER COLOSSUS" - and other poems

‘The Questions’
-and other poems and quotes’
 


Ethan Leon S



















                          











© 2006 - 2007 – Ethan Leon S – all rights reserved –
Any unauthorized copy or reproduction of any material will be resulted in the immediate pursuit of legal action by Ethan Leon S.
All poems are the sole property of Ethan Leon S and are his original work -


 















-‘My Poems in this collection are dedicated to the Insanity and morbid planes within us all’
















  
-The Poems & Quotes –


A mighty Irony - Afternoon paisleys

Because we are dead - Death’s Directions

Healthy anxiety - Healthy insanity

Heartwood -I met with God

To judge themselves - Indefinite Kill

My Quarrel - Nature’s Way
  
Reclusive Omen - Religious Medication

Scarlet Sensation - Soul of the bird

The actor - The artist’s crucifixion

The blue hole - The corpse

The fever - The lack of cake

The lady burlesque - The questions

The virgin flower - To be pitied

To the mirror - The widow

The widower - Pride of the stag

If the forests could talk – Sol

Fall’s Beauty – People and each other

Healthy convulsion – A change in the tapestry

Peccavi – On Hell

I will be here – Clock’s cadaver

Father Colossus – The Thing that grew

Stitches of grass -




*

‘A mighty irony’
Ethan Leon S

I have always been looking,
Out of windows observing—
And things seem to be the same—
Except that sometimes I see the sky and grasses,
Or perhaps the rain and the lightning—
But out here always is Death ravaging,

Upon his white horse seated mightily,
Wandering about on the streets haggling—
For the souls not held tightly,
The souls of the sick, the broken, and crippled—
They shake and mumble when they see his face—his smirk,
Wouldn’t you think it a crime that Death’s peers—do nothing,
—To stop him?

*

‘Afternoon paisleys’
Ethan Leon S

Subjective wonders and certain majesty’s,
Every year the soul is bathed in autumn afternoons,
And if you stand to long under the trees—

You almost see the paisleys—
That hang in the sky, drifting like many tears—
For the rest of your life—

*

‘Because we are dead’
Ethan Leon S

Because I am dead,
I hear nothing of the living
I can sense they are there,
I am always quite sensitive,
And sometimes they even disturb me,
On my many aimless journeys and wanderings-

Because I am dead,
The people I care for are feeling empty-
I sometimes even fancy they may miss me’
They may even hold my funeral,
Maybe my cremation-
I hope only my memories be forgotten-

Because I am dead,
I will not feel those flames,
Of the fire that will end my vessel-
Incinerating my corpse to ashes!
Giving me over finally to the afterlife,
To have finally crossed over-

Because I am dead,
I care not for the places I have been,
Or for the matter where I am, it is not as they say
If I be in Hell there is no pain,
If I lay in Heaven—I feel no pleasure,
So I care not where I am

Because I am dead,
I become frequently bored of never-ending days
Of wandering the quiet halls of crypts,
The desolate wastes of tombs-
The disrepair of it all-
It is quite maddening!

Because I am dead,
I just happen to see others like me—
They are strange and different; but comrades all the same,
We sometimes have conversations,
That span many eras and decades,
But then again, what is time to the dead?

Because I am dead,
Does not mean I am not caring,
I still love to be articulate of the things,
I cared for as one of the living—
The symbolism of my activities,
Is escaped by even me-

Because I am dead,
I am still yet impatiently waiting,
Going through cycles, helix’s and months
Where I grow ever-lastingly bored—
I wait for those, that once did mourn me,
I wait for them to join me-‘

Because I am dead,
My patience wanes, until the day I see them,
And then will I receive them—
From then we will travel, to the banks
Of the river Styx,
To have them christened “dead”—

Because we are dead,
It will all be for nothing,
And we will have our generations,
And have our generations, till our children arrive
And then their children, and then theirs the next!
We will watch them pass; and receive them—

Because we are dead,
We will do nothing to save them,
For in many ways we envy them—
But even then nothing can we do—
Because we are dead—, because we are dead,
Amen’

*

‘Deaths Directions’
Ethan Leon S

I like to think of traveling,
As a sort of gambling with my destiny—
For every road I take it seems. .
Leads me somewhere further away—
And every crossroads that I find,

Seems to be occupied by Death—
Giving directions to passersby,
Showing them his unprecedented direction—
Of how to get lost,
In their afterlives—

*

‘Healthy Anxiety’
Ethan Leon S

‘My eyes water
‘My bones splinter
‘My arteries burst
‘My lungs collapse
‘My ribcage falls in
‘My teeth shatter
‘My pulse quickens
‘My marrow melts
‘My heart-valves break
‘My mandible cracks
‘My hair stiffens
‘My tendons snap
‘My throat swells
‘My eardrums implode
‘My tongue bleeds
‘My stomach disintegrates
‘My fingernails grind
‘My brain convulses
‘I have just had my daily breakdown—

*

Healthy Insanity
Ethan Leon S

My clothes are on the ceiling
Performing madly in disarray with my mind—
My window bends in harmony
With the people outside—

My eyes are on the wall
Where the clocks are joyfully melting—
The suffocate so willingly—
When in a routine drunken frenzy

My walls are becoming shallow—
To where they are enough to walk on
For I have come out so reclusive
From night’s bleeding womb—

I now roll back my eyes—
Take my pills—reach for water
I am feeling quite sensational—
For I have just had my evening seizure’

*

Heartwood
Ethan Leon S

I sit in a tree
That takes in vibrations
And moves it’s heartwood
To them

It’s found a simple
Way of living
By standing next to them
And reliving them

Beating softly
Through single layers
Peeling away softly
At God’s hand

Revealed inside
There was nothing
For the spirit was pure
Not opaque and needy—

*

‘I met with God’
Ethan Leon S

I once met God— in the early hours,
Walking down the streets of the earth,
Admiring his work as might—
The Creator of a sculpture or painting,
Marking with his eyes the suffering about;
How the people starved and mutilated themselves,

I followed him through the cities—
Watching his movements carefully—as if wise,
Until we reached a prosperous garden,
He sat down on a bench, watching the skies—
I came up before him, and looked down—
He brought forth his head and looked back,

And then he cried as if reading my mind,
I turned my head away—
When I turned it back he was gone,
And since that day before I take the time—
To pass my judgment over anything,
Since that day, I have somehow changed—

*

“Indefinite Kill”
Ethan Leon S

If I were to kill myself,
That hour would fall on Sunday—
During the mass of the Christians
So that I could feel holy as do
My patron hypocrites—
So we could share that beautiful feeling

And if I were to kill a man,
Still yet would I do it on Sunday!
But only after his evening prayers—
Not so that he could be close to God
But so he could be almost close enough—
To care’

*

My Quarrel
Ethan Leon S

I have never had a quarrel
With anyone
But he who came upon
The crown of the world

And know I have a quarrel
With he,
Who says he knows
The meaning – of life

*

Nature’s way
Ethan Leon S

I love it when the trees fall down—cut by men
And with them come the birds
Then with the birds fall down the insects
And then the insects they fall to the ground,
They spread a disease of many maladies

And then they die, and their carcasses spread the thorn
Into the side of mother Earth
And then the soil it loosens the roots the forests—
That promptly fall and crush the men
They die together in nature’s way—-Amen

*

‘Reclusive omen’
Ethan Leon S

If you have never,
Watched the recluse—bate itself in solitude—
Perhaps you should,

For in loneliness—
IS a terrible omen, beware the influence,
Of overcrowded thought—

*

‘Religious Medication’
Ethan Leon S

I have had the,
Spiritual high—
That seems a delusion
My hands in the air
Waving above my screaming—

I have had the
Dose of Opium reason—
The strong base of sanity—
Hell, its always collapsing
So addicting—that I want more

*

Scarlet Sensation
Ethan Leon S

Fine threads woven into her skin
Down on her knees
Not unlike she is in prayer

Sexual sensation
Between grasps of air
And to understand God

Hair like a scarlet cloak
Down her back
And to her feet

Panting softly
Her tongue but a canvas
Her voice a mellow tone

All this given to me
With no mercy or
Hindrance shown-

*

‘Soul of the bird’
Ethan Leon S

Standing on my balcony one day,
While watching the meanings—
Behind patches of skies,
I saw an astounding bird!
In a full and deep medative flight—
Marking its path with glistening ease,
I believed in its beauty—and everything,

The way its feathers parted for the wind!
It was so graceful—!
It was then happily I left the balcony,
Taking my time walking carefully,
That I realized something~
The bird had been hideous, flatly abiding me,
I had not seen the bird—I had seen its soul~

*

‘The actor’
Ethan Leon S

‘The actor is always looking for the perfect audience. The actor is always practicing for the perfect performance that he has yet to achieve for the perfect audience. It seems that the actor is always looking for the audience to achieve what he lacks. Now tell me if the audience and this actor are in the same theater, who is trying to please who?’

*

The artist’s crucifixion
Ethan Leon S

As an artist, one has the greatest sacrifice of all. One gives up so much to your readers, your visual fans, your soul-mates everyone. But this takes its toll on the artist, for when you look upon, or read something of the artist’s labor you steal something so precious from the artist, you drive nails into the artist. Then after it is all done and the artist has nothing more to provide to the parasite that is those the who love the artist so much, the artist climbs upon his/her cross and dies. But it is not done, for the artist resurrects, for all time through they eyes of those who stole so much, and the artist has given the greatest sacrifice of all. Himself through the work he so willingly gave.

*

The Blue Hole
Ethan Leon S

I have seen, Oh no have breathed
The sea’s crisp evil
Its sexual filthy bliss
All the people who have dreamt
Of the water,
They always seem to leave something behind,
They always find themselves dreaming,
Of returning there

Oh have I felt
The sense of great Isolation
While fish swam between my legs
And I sat in the sand
And I have always been dreaming
Of staying there,
My eyes closed with nothing,
With no one to distract me
I have seen the blue hole

It sits in the middle of the sea
And there it lies
It is calling to me,
I am so desperately,
Disturbingly trying to get there
The middle of the sea
To kiss its fringes and borders
With my lips last breath of air
I want to drown to meet God there—

*

‘The Corpse’
Ethan Leon S

Wandering in the dark city once,
I had a strange privilege—
Of speaking with a corpse in the alley,
You see it beckoned its cadaver’s arm to me,
Its skin deteriorating bones showing through—
All dead except the eyes, they were intriguing—
It began to drive my senses mad with envy of them!

It begged of me the moments I would spare,
It would have its time I was drawn in—
Instead of being repulsed I felt empathy,
I kneeled close and listened for its tale!
It told me of its deepest wishes, its darkest sins,
Eyes glistening sharply with the wisdom of the dying-
Lips chapped and strumming its stories,

When it had paused from its trembled speech,
It left me with a friend’ earnest warning!
‘Beware the sorrows of the sins’ it said,
‘Follow only what you know to be true’ its last breath!
When it died I hurried quickly away from the alley—
For as it died I discovered the truth of regret—
The corpse had been mine all along’

*

‘The lack of cake’
Ethan Leon S

'The lack of cake is just appalling! Everyone can use cake its edible, it's wonderful, cake is ecstasy, life’ is all about the pursuit of more cake than the norm. Therefore cake must keep some hidden secret in it’s bowels that make people ingest it and bring forth to them the most wonder five second orgasmic breaths ever---even of the lack of cake is appalling'

*

The Lady Burlesque
Ethan Leon S

Do you see how she shows me her thigh?
It is a sign of such perfect sexual attraction,
I may take her to my rooms tonight—
Where by candle will I inspire delight,

The explosions of orgasmic feelings,
God himself will be sent reeling from our minds,
If this is sin I want we should want it everlasting,
With only her my Lady Burlesque’

*

“The questions”
Ethan Leon S

I once had coffee with Life—
It was such a morning!
We had conversations of Death,
Of pity, and of wretchedness—
We adjourned our philosophies,
With a question; to each the other—

I once had tea with Death—
It was such an evening!
We had conversations of Life,
Of happiness, and of beauty—
We adjourned our ponderings,
With a question; to each the other—

Life’s question was of Death,
“Did he believe he was eternal?”
Death’s question was of Life,
“Did he believe he was perfection?”
My question to them both was this,
“Am I in Life’s graces, or In Death’s?”

*

The Virgin Flower
Ethan Leon S

In the lake of almost un-countable ages,
There is a serious dilemma—
For the most exhausting amount of time
The virgin flower has not blossomed!
Instead it has been sealed

Under the waters much like glass,
So that everyone above, can see through and around it—
God has even gotten so concerned, as to cut it out in a-
Cube’
And place it in his palace, to where it can be watched-

God grows so fascinated, about how the bud has-
-Had not the touch of age to its petals!
But then as he asks for the opinion of men—
They tell him he has grown ignorant,
And that the flowers been dead for ages’

*

‘To be pitied’
Ethan Leon S

‘Some members of the human race seem to live off pity, and to do this they generally find themselves describing the horrible situations they have been in to other members of the human race in order to achieve pity. Is it not strange they say that they wish to be happy when in fact they dwell on ways to have themselves beaten to extremes so that they may again have pity? It seems only fair and decent to say that to pity them would be to feed the animal that they house within themselves, to pity them would be to help them further their self-inflicted torture. If this is so, why would you seek to pity anyone who flaunts their wretchedness? If one does do so, then one deserves unknowingly to be pitied all to oneself—is this not true?’

*

‘To judge themselves’
Ethan Leon S

‘If one were to refer to me as Sadistic, I would tell them that I am not but instead truthful for all the pain caused and that they should thank me. If someone were to tell me that I was cruel, I would claim no but that I am simply brutal and that the brute force was just the reckoning. If someone were to tell me that all the thing I do are meaningless and evil, I would tell them that there was more to it than that— and that the meaningless qualities in what I do are all the more charming for the critique’. If I were to look in the mirror to judge myself I would find myself just as I am, but If all the people that judge me looked in the mirror they would seem themselves as they are. . .and that would simply shock them—’

*

‘To the mirror’
Ethan Leon S

If you seem to escape the moment,
And bring yourself to be perfect—
Caressing the idol movements,
Of your faulty imperfect mind—

Dodging the present,
Mocking yourself while serene—
You can never be kind or gentle—
When looking in the mirror~

*

‘The widow’
Ethan Leon S

In the graveyard—
Amongst the tombstones,
There does a woman walk—
Draped in scarves of moping black,
She creeps among the rows—

She rests in the dreary mausoleums,
Waiting to rise just once a year—
To welcome with a cold embrace the dead,
To them—like a mother she is,
The widow is her name—

*

‘The widower’
Ethan Leon S

In the cemetery—
Amongst the graves,
There does a man pace—
Draped in stripes of weary brown,
He mopes among the spaces—

He rests in the open hovels,
Waiting to rise just once a year—
To welcome with a cool handshake the dead,
To them—like a father he is,
The widower is his name—

*

‘Pride of the stag’
Ethan Leon S

Overlooking the valleys and trees,
Stands majestic the hills and mountains—
Atop them stands the stag— serenely,
His coat glistening softly to the eye,
He stands persuasively as if to gain perfection!
So secure in the mountainous pride he carries—

But then in a lustful lunge at glory—
He falls and begins to tumble—fretting,
And then bleeding with the pains of downfall—
Seeks the look of innocence awarded the birth—
Of betrayal—seeing nothing wrong,
With reaping what he has sown—

*

‘If the forests could talk’
Ethan Leon S

If the forests before you could talk—
What would they tell you?
Would they be so pleasant as,
To give the desired conversation,
And proper etiquette and gentle feelings—

Or maybe not any of those possibilities—
Maybe the commendatory would be feeble attacks,
On the brittle ventures of men,
Begging your persuasive empathy!
To stop the self-destructive deforestation—the killings!

But perhaps to this you would not listen—
And ignore the pleas of simple desperation,
Turning your back on the plight entirely,
And when you turn back around—to listen inquisitively—
I am quite sure that they will not be there—but dead~

*

‘Sol’
Ethan Leon S

Slumped luxuriously over the morning quadrants,
Almost like a copper coil with bits of yellow—
Marked with creases of poinsettia red,
The sun stands poised exceptionally over-head—

Marching in an intertwining orbit of color,
From its vantage point in the bleak cosmos—
Grasping the vibrant patches of lunar captivity,
The star of the morning shoves on westward—

And stopping briefly as if lulled to sleep,
The curves of the sun begin to retreat—
Leaving behind a memory of warmth—and light
Trailing behind it wanes its sister—

*

‘Fall’s beauty’
Ethan Leon S

Haven’t you ever just watched—
The trees—leaning slightly,
To let fall the mature leaves?
Tilting as they dance to the ground—
Letting colors of the fall envelope them!
Hues of fluorescent brown, and yellow,

While the trees themselves,
With trunks of crumbling bark—
Look all the more majestic,
Standing proud barren of their burden—
They stand as prime examples—
To the gorgeous youth of autumn~

*

‘People and each other’
Ethan Leon S

In degrees are people taken in by others. In rotations are they respected and revered, though they often find ways to degrade each other. I think their feelings remain the same. In breaths are people taken in by others. In sighs are they spoken of and discussed, though they sometimes find reasons to yell at each other. I think their heartbeat remains the same.

*

‘Healthy convulsion’
Ethan Leon S

Fingers fray—
The convex image caves in,
Flowers grimace down,
A flight of insanity—
And then they fell—

To the warped mirror—
I stare so numbingly
My mind struggles,
With my lungs—
To relive the pressure,

Giving in—
My collapsing throat,
Leaves a cluster—
Of pockets of air,
Trying to revive me—

Eyes bleed relentlessly,
Sightless momentum treading onward—
My path pushes downward,
Exerting gaining force—
On my open mouth~

And I am awake—
I am lying on my back,
Staring upwards at myself—
On the ceiling there is the mirror,
I just had my noontime overdose-

*

‘A change in the tapestry’
Ethan Leon S

There is a tapestry of passionate silk,
Of evening colors and cryptic stitches—
And sewn as decor into the pattern,
Is a scene of springtime lovers—
The woman wears a dress of black—
And her lover a man a smock of grey,
In the border they stand on a lush green hill—
Strewn with flowers of a brides bouquet’,
Their appearance causes one to mope—its depressing~
And the tapestry sits like this every day—

But on a night during fits of Insomnia—
During the collapse of the weather—dreadful,
I rose and crept to look upon it—
The embroidery was still the same—
Except for the figures were not as usually portrayed!
They wore touching gowns of white and strings of pearls—
Dancing in a halo of the moonlight!
The next morning I awoke—
To find the tapestry just as before,
Even though I am sure of a change I did see!

*

‘Peccavi’
Ethan Leon S

Sitting once on a hill, with the time passing—
I witnessed a scene of such prosperous audacity,
A delusion with factors of the most surreal,
I had been staring at lines of my palms, questioning—
Questioning the prospects of the future,
The ground did shudder and quake with intent—
And then as I looked about I saw something—
People rising from the dust in costumes—
They cavorted in parties together—a masquerade,

Their faces I covered with masks of different extremes—
If they were the damned, pleased they must be!
For they routed themselves in orderly fashions—
Placing themselves in no particular classes,
For as they swayed to mythical pairs—
Prancing in jumps, to match simply exquisite dances!
I made as if a personal guest of the sponsor,
Pacing through crowds of plaster faces—
They looked at me not and kept dancing,

I finally made it to the center of the masses—
There I sighted a lone person standing, by a standard—
A banner of black in the ground—he leaned on it stoutly,
Dressed in a suite of flowing white was this man—
Nodding his head madly as if in a trance,
I crept up to close his as if to touch him—
I strummed my fingers on his forehead tenderly,
His hair hidden behind his hood on his head, orderly—
He raised his head up and looked at me,

I was startled! I was looking at my own face—
But as surprised as I was—I was not frightened,
He took my gaze into his own intensely,
Reaching out for my hand, holding it gently—
Taking me quickly into his embrace—
Leading me through the attendees of the party,
He walked me through stanzas—
Of beating music of various composers,
And then as a high note completed—

He leaned close—I could feel his breath,
And he made as if to kiss me—instead—
He whispered one word ‘Peccavi’~
Then did his mouth meet my own—
Parting my lips with his delicate brush—
He kept me in that position for so long,
Taming my stiffness to match his—
I was uplifted by this taste this—example of sin,
Then it was over, I was staring into his eyes—

And then he fell to the ground—
His ribcage lifting and falling arithmetically,
I had stolen the breath that was in a way my own—
I tried desperately to return it,
I kissed him again, and held to my breath—
But it was over—He was dead—
I looked up sobbing, the ball had stopped,
The masqueraders were staring—intently—
I left his body to run through them quickly—

My eyes did not leave the ground—but I knew—
The plaster faces with their expressions were watching,
But soon I stopped after witnessing silent judgment—
For the ground was strewn with littered masks and clothing,
I turned around and stole a path back to the center—
Feeling wary of the clothes on the way—I did not touch them,
Then I came upon, the pile of clothing that was my double—
On His clothes was a parchment—on it was scrawled neatly—
‘I have sinned, Peccavi’!

*

‘On Hell’
Ethan Leon S

The people lined outside,
The gates of Hell—
Are appalled by the appearance,
Of Dante’s head on the end of a spear—
Lounging his skull is every consistent,
With quoting stanza’s of his cantos—

Wishing He still had his hand,
To welcome warmly the people waiting!
And the devil stands on the ramparts—
Showing the antichrist as his treasure,
And people that pas through—anticipate painful throes,

But of course they do see all the irony—
Of God’s law as the curtain falls at the ending~
They abide the torture with such pity on the demons—
For what else are they to do? If this is not all just—
A phase—to be explained rationally?—

*

‘I will be here’
Ethan Leon S

When I die—
I will be here—

Perhaps like Chronos—
From my stomach will grow a tree—

That way—you—
Could eat of my passions—

And in your life would—
I be here always—

I may find it somehow difficult—
But I will be here—

*

‘Clock’s cadaver’
Ethan Leon S

When the clock fell from its palm—
It face stopped working,
So polite it was—that its hands,
Stopped on the very hour of its passing—noon!

All I really had to do—
Was invite others—to dissect it—
How my friends had such profession!
They take their time so skillfully—

Giving over its parts to other—clocks—
Letting them cannibalize its carcass,
I do believe it would be proud,
To know it went to such good use!

For time is nothing to waste—
And know the carnage—what little is left—
Shall be delivered over to God,
So he may pretend to hoard his treasures—

*

‘Father Colossus’
Ethan Leon S

Oh my primitive Greek father, how I—
—lean against your sturdy marble leg in the ground—
My body the size of your graceful foot—
Your Hellenistic curls of hair dangling limp—
The entire length of your arm—

Oh Father!—How you are so ancient—
I am never sure of how to address you—
For when I do—I see your granite teeth—limestone molars—
Your lips of stone curved crookedly,
How you happen to resemble a statue in your silence—

Oh Father, have you lain there long—?
Your hands together—petrified eternally—
Have you thought of how I came to you—?
Oh father! I am not sure of that emblem—
Of a cross on your upper torso—

That cross—does it still have meaning to you—?
I am never sure of your vague gestures,
The slow shakes of your head—the nods—
Is it just one of the symptoms of your illness—?
That put you in the bed so long ago—?

*
   ‘The thing that grew’
Ethan Leon S

The lavender in the churchyard grows awkwardly—
To form a crucifix with tints of mulberry,
Clothed in a risqué pattern of violet—
The supreme hues of indigo shadows—

The light that reflects a kaleidoscope of the petals—
The ground shaded beneath the stems esthetically,
Like some lost canto of descriptive momentum—
It would all seem so pristine—

If it were not for the hands,
The hands that seem to grow from the ground—
From stems like veins—and tendons like stalks—
They are plated by a molting golden layer of skin—

Do you not wonder what it they will grow into?
The tinge of the ligaments darkening—to blood red—
Growing taller with every season—
It almost seems to be growing to mold a person!—

Or maybe they will just sink into the ground—a deformity—
A pair of palms extending upwards as if praying,
Try desperately to grasp something to hold it forth—
Do you not wonder what it they will grow into?

Teasingly—I stand a witness to the magenta stage—
Where the strip of madness unwinds itself—
But Oh!—something comes forth from the ground—
And dances around the cross of lavender!

Pieced oddly from the fragments of scarlet poppies—
Cavorting strangely with the stiffness of a mannequin,
I believe it would sing if it had the organs!
I have to wonder—will it live for long?

Or wilt—into a heap of red flowers—
Or just simply climb back into the soil—!
But no I do not watch for long—
I simply chase it off the edge of my cumulus~

*
‘Stitches of grass’
Ethan Leon S

The wrinkled pear skinned beauty—
To you I would sell my soul—to have yours encased—
The pale winter hue of your stomach—
The stitches of grass on your forehead,

One can almost see the engraved doctrine of age—
Leaving its mark up on your arms and legs,
I know it was not always this way—do you?
The vines sprouting from your hair—

I am sure you know it was only just the other morning,
That you tripped over your hanging jugular cord—
The poppy traced liquid seeping from the—
Cuts on your adorable hands—

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