echoes
of forbidden hours; Moon's laying low
and it's to early

but You no longer fear;

resting in the silence after The
Not Yet Heard

Giving of Words;

Dying of Birds:

".. and therefore" he sais
"therefore..
there was nothing about it."

with eyes
just as shiny as Sun
melting snowflakes

in warm winter winds

mirroring memories
Monroe he

in cryin' crumble goes:
"Oh, help;

Oh!"

echoes; itchy
of forbidden hours

'n forbidden our´s
of limit

Monroe

just go, My Dear
monroe

I'll be Watching

The Show