"It's not really poetry, but it's pretty," he said.

As he raises his voice, she lowers her head.

"It makes my heart heavy, you're lonely, I think.

Oh, Rose, you're sad, I suppose." 

"Look in her bed and she's bound to be sleeping.

She's lying there dead. - No, she's breathing." 

Furious Rose, with your opiate eyes,

your languorous hum, that tone of surprise

I've heard energy in adversity.

Your smile: the soul of witchery.

You're not running away,

you're not running - are you? 

Lyrically longing, she's tearing the words from the page.

She's fearfully seething.

"Bring me your blessings, a prayer, or a new pen.

- You don't know what I need." 

"Look in my bed and I'm bound to be sleeping,

I'm lying there dead, but I'm breathing. 

And I'm barely balancing as it is,

and I don't want to drown in my dreams

Bring me wild plums and agrimony

- I bet you don't even know what that means." 

Furious Rose with your opiate eyes,

your languorous hum, that tone of surprise.

I've heard energy in adversity.

Your smile: the soul of witchery.

You're not running away,

you're not running - are you? 

Gingerly peering, over his shoulder, removed herself from the room.

She's terribly freezing, she always knows when to go.