Sunday, December 25, 2011

i miss you, dearest, sweet cordelia

whyever did i trust those horrid lies

 spoken by vile reagan and goneril

and lead you to your untimely meeting

with our cold, callous, and injust maker?

'tis a bird sitting on my window sill.

 i cannot stay here.

perhaps that rumbling was not rolling thunder.

perhaps it was merely a passing truck.

but can i take that chance?

you would know what to say, cordelia.

you always did, though i paid you no heed

and, thus reaped my own terrible reward

1 comment:

  1. Smash its fucking head in, and rescue your heroine before it's too late. Oh wait, your heroine is dead and the pretty little birdies are following you everywhere you go. Too late for that, just by a bit, just by a little and a lot. Leaps and bounds.

    I'd say you're fucked, just a little, just a whole fucking lot.