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gothic poetry

ich gehe hinunter die Gartenwege
der alte Westen, die alte Zeit
ich stehe im kalten grauen Wetter
dunkelstes, merkwürdigstes Geheimnis
schreckliche Wahrheiten diese sind
Dame, Ihr Herz hat an Staub gewendet
meine Mutter twines mich die Roses, die mit Tau naß sind
ist häufig er nicht so?
ein Sturm fährt auf den Tide
war sie nicht für diesen einzigartigen Geruch
ich bin eine Frau

 



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