the apostle paul

fever ferver burning bright

how i wash my face

at night with the way the weather blows

out the window blinks the rose

the rose the rose

will ever rise forever to its own demise

abd rise and rise  

and then will swell  

in the hips and withered face

its blush its rush

back to the ground is never quite the human sound

the ground the sound

it quietly makes

is not the same it quietly takes.