This episode is also available as a blog post: https://imnotgoood21blog.wordpress.com/2021/06/10/and-wither-wither-more/

A lone rose groweth from the psyche, a sullen poet’s venomous strife, a beckoned hell of thorns grown sharp, for which one fell and pricked the heart, and which the roots were poisoned true, and wither, wither more.

But yet one seeks to see itself, and fall into its reflection, for if it solves the riddled hell, it sees beyond perfection.

To avoid the traps that seek to ruse, a thought of thoughts and pretty muse, or wither, wither more.

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