First+period+Group+Four

=//**// **S. Lefǎr Turn.** //**//= __A Rose for Miss. Moons__

If death could embody the living, It would run from her feet to her golden threads. Promises of heaven, flirting flowery beds. With a deathly gaze like winter, freezing. Hearts, like hands, bitter cold with squeezing. Unknowingly she breaks, forms, and bends The copper wiring of my heart with no ends. Oh, Death you can embody the living.

Your death, however, still lingers here, Pervading minds like English ivy. Vines of envy suffocating hope. Hope of finding another so dear. But I search preposterously. And, until your return, I mope.