Swirls of silky crimson and summer green assault her eyes.

Crimson. Green. Crimson. Dash of green. Crimson. Green. Every thorn attacks her with it's painful beauty.

Who knew you could die by such beautiful things?

Death by roses.  A beautiful death for a beautiful woman.

Red roses. Green stems. Ivory skin. Dark brown hair. Blue eyes. Red dress. Green stems. Red roses.

Death. Beautiful, terrible death.

A visitor rang at my door late one night, an old friend,
Taking his hand in mine without words we held no identity and breathed as one,
He held a bag of emptied hearts and broken spirits
His eyes held the burden of truth,
We knew, in the silent darkness, the way only hearts can, our parting that night would be short lived
A few days more my door rang again and there with his bag he slipped right in,
I heard all the words he had to say, all the truths he’d forced me to face and begged him to go
Sadly he shook his head, kissed my forehead and took residence in my bed,
I fought and persuaded, pushed , and hung my head defeated
This old friend, he told no lie,
That time for now was no friend of mine,
He never left my side in those months to come, in return I dropped my contributions into his bag,
His hand stay tightly woven in mine as my eyes witness the cancer take so much from the youthful angel, the world only briefly could know,
My friend, he saw this too, he’d wept with me weeks before, and for so many yet to come promising never to leave, at least never for long,
I collapsed into him, into his tragic security
As a loved one slipped away to death he slid into my home
His name was grief and while I live neither he nor I will be alone

You're lifting me up to the stars.
we're sitting cross-lagged on the moon.
Drinking coffee in the clouds.
Your eyes are as deep as ever;
I'm tripping over your laughter;
Ringing inside me;
Falling into your eyes.

I'm trailing off mid-sentence,
"cause you're smiling and I can't get past it.
Never thought I'd stop being broken;
Like a bone taken under a train.

Something about the way you talk.
                       The way you don't talk.
Makes me stop.
Just to mess up your hair.
And stop the world for a second.
Skip over the reality.

Just for a minute.

Merry Margaret
  As midsummer flower,
  Gentle as falcon
  Or hawk of the tower:
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;
    So joyously,
    So maidenly,
    So womanly
    Her demeaning
    In every thing,
    Far, far passing
    That I can indite,
    Or suffice to write
  Of Merry Margaret
  As midsummer flower,
  Gentle as falcon
  Or hawk of the tower.
  As patient and still
  And as full of good will
  As fair Isaphill,
  Coliander,
  Sweet pomander,
  Good Cassander;
  Steadfast of thought,
  Well made, well wrought,
  Far may be sought,
  Ere that ye can find
  So courteous, so kind
  As merry Margaret,
  This midsummer flower,
  Gentle as falcon
  Or hawk of the tower.

I tried to breathe in more air than my heart could take
and at once my veins and capillaries burst
I felt no more strength
to stop my bones from giving way, oh they parted ways
and a black realm
with faint fragments of light and of spectral array
swallowed me
up.