Emily Dickinson
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The River of My Life
Merrily, the Lady in White,Did not stop for her death. Death comes at her call;Beyond the precipices and the pieces, Resting at the bottom of a bottle,In the plastic faces of dolls,The static of television sets,And in the council of demons. Death wants only to take life;Separate the body from soul,The poetess from her pen,The…
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The Eyes
The way you look at me,Is the way I looked at you –Honey dripping from the comb,Wet as servitude and naivety, Devoted illusions of the eye,Statistically happy and bled,By the book and by the look,Having and wanting empty shells,A thousand likes, a thousand hells, Then I stopped to see to see,And that fly that was…
A Fantazien Window 