She found an ink and quill one day and prayed the sun would warm her
paper
as she traced her hand and tried to mimic the beauty before her.
Furiously failing with each stroke of dark, bleeding ink.
She settled for a creaking, craking caricature to be her missing link.
Beauty melted as she sold flowers for gold, and soon life became
a horrid have-some-myrrh-sweetheart, but not too much or I cant gain.
Press the gum against your sweet lips as she murmurs sweeter into your
ear.
"You make me angry less, and I suppose that I love you, my dear"
And after anger burns the forests, and after it brings her sisters harm.
She will hang her ink up to dry, and curl up softly in your arms.




Penned by my hand on the 5th of Midsummer, in the year 213 MA.