Thus to be lost and thus to sink and die
Perchance were death indeed
Imagine if you wrote Frankenstein
And were married to Shelley
In thy dark eyes
A power like light doth lie
Even though the sounds which were thy voice
Which burn
Between thy lips
Are laid to sleep
We all met up
Near the ocean
Old time party
Within thy breath, and on thy hair
Like odour it is yet
And from thy touch
Like fire doth leap
I woke up to Byron's snoring
His hand beneath my cheek
I dream of monsters and chemistry
Thus to be lost and thus to sink and die
Perchance were death indeed
He got in a boat
And was lost at sea
