The sharp-toothed skirmisher of January past

passes its knives by her cheeks;

the hillside heralds its shredded brown visage,

winter’s wolf howls the bitter conquest of the moors.

The season of concealing crowns and faces,

of cautious feet across the maze of wilted souls

to reach the lone tree, grey lightning petrified in time.

Frozen into the bark are age and time.

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I'd like you to like me

and I'd like you to know,

Id doesn't like me and Superego doesn't know where to go.

I've planned a trip to where the tulips grow -

find a vein, push a plunger, let the psychotropes flow.

I know you don't like me

and we've nowhere to go.

Ego doesn't know what to do and Id has hate to sow.

I'd like you to, I'd like to oblige you to throw

away m...

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