Demether Her Last Home
Just like oil on canvass…
Touch of red, mostly black…
Thick are the air and the fog that hide her from you…
Weeps… shadow…
Cries … sparkle…
“She sleeps, she sleeps…”
Once in time, there she was,
Standing by the willow tree,
Longing for an old feeling, being his…
Now she is like a torn flower,
Alone…
Among the trees, and underneath the leaves,
There is her last home, she lies there all alone…
