Nobody knows this little Rose --
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it --
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey --
On its breast to lie --
Only a Bird will wonder --
Only a Breeze will sigh --
Ah Little Rose -- how easy
For such as thee to die!

Emily Dickinson

Friday, 12 February 2010

The Departure

In the morning you'll find that there's salt on my pillow
and a crumpled up shape where my head used to lay
I'm trying so hard to to forget what I am
and to try and pretend that I'm dreaming each day.

But the grey of the night bleeds in to each daybreak
the numb of the dark cannot deaden each blow
I'm not leaving my bed, think I'm dying a little
Lying silent to wait for the journey to home

So tonight as I smile and I wish you sweet dreaming
I will close every door and I'll smother each light
And how sweetly I'll shiver, dissolve in to starshine
You'll not find me tomorrow, I'm leaving tonight

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