Garden
The woman is the rose. Her body is so white that I think she has milk, not blood, under that transparent skin. Her lips are petals blooming from her mouth. She cannot say bad things; petals cannot say bad things. That dress must have grown from her blushing cheeks, no tailor made that dress. I think if you touched the fabric it would wither. I think if you touched her that white skin could wither.
The man is the thorn. Don't look at his eyes. I said don't look at his eyes. His eyes could kill you. There is no knowing what colour his eyes are. Nobody will ever know. I think if you looked at them you would never stop looking until you died. But you would most certainly die.
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The man is the rose. He has unfolded out of air. His white shirt blossomed out of air. The bulb was a good one, his skin is pure. His thoughts are pure. His voice is deep and rich, a bud inside that good clean skin.
The woman is the thorn. Her hair is black. I never did see a women with such black hair. Perhaps it is made from ink. I wonder what thoughts she keeps under her black crown. The ink tastes sharp, don't let her poison you. I think she wants to poison you.
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Reader exercise: Imagine the roses dancing with the thorns.
The man is the thorn. Don't look at his eyes. I said don't look at his eyes. His eyes could kill you. There is no knowing what colour his eyes are. Nobody will ever know. I think if you looked at them you would never stop looking until you died. But you would most certainly die.
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The man is the rose. He has unfolded out of air. His white shirt blossomed out of air. The bulb was a good one, his skin is pure. His thoughts are pure. His voice is deep and rich, a bud inside that good clean skin.
The woman is the thorn. Her hair is black. I never did see a women with such black hair. Perhaps it is made from ink. I wonder what thoughts she keeps under her black crown. The ink tastes sharp, don't let her poison you. I think she wants to poison you.
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Reader exercise: Imagine the roses dancing with the thorns.
