Sweet revenge grows harsh, palm to palm, face to face; I will stab you wildly. Madness grown in a field of prickly roses, I will cut little stars in you and pull out your organs and eat them like a naked savage. I will be like how you see me now. Your devourer, such a mad marriage never was before; your innocent flower that grows angry and that has a speaking serpent hiding under the stalks of grass near the fallen birch tree where you shall rest when I am finished. Tears will not brew; I am nothing but cunning.
