Dove white is not warm;
I am skulled, I am torn.
A scorn is all that’s born
From those paper freckles.
A love that won’t falter,
Dead weighted, a pinned alter.
It alters: I falter
At the sound of your lips.
The flowers have died.
The Woman in White’s clearly lied
A mother sighed. Hearts coincide.
And I am not warm