Long Hours Trail In Their Purple And

Words Were Her Plague And Words Were Her Redemption.

There's A Black Rose Growing In Your Garden.

In My Garden The Winds Have Beaten The Ripe Lilies; In My Garden, The Salt Has Wilted The First Flakes Of Young Narcissus.

No Man Will Be Present In Those Mysteries, Yet All Men Will Kneel, No Man Will Be Potent, Important, Yet All Men Will Feel What It Is To Be A Woman.

Dead Men Would Start And Move Toward Me To Learn Of Love.