Phantasmagoria

She doesn't give a tinker's damn about anything anymore
She doesn't hear the tintinabulation of the church bells
She is walking through a forest
Much of the wood is punk; only worthy of becoming tinder for the fire
Maybe a fire will rid her of her melancholy soul
The pheonix's spirit to rise up
And her sombre mood will dispel into the night air
Her piquant personality to shine through
Her disarming smile will radiate from her porcelain face
And only a fuscous soul shall bring her down

Amy Sands