Roses in the ice and girls on the roof tops.
Fall for me and descend,
fire and water and love upon strife
find me in a bloody, wet, red frame
and wear me on your sleeve.
It spreads.
Books in tatters and stars at the ball
scattered in glowing, dancing pairs.
Their wards in shatters,
glinting, sharp glass on the floor.
Masks made of gold, and tears of silver
dip in the sea of bronze.
I am perfect,
I am shattered.
- M. Eichmann
