The whispers of the wicked plague the mother,
for her children tread ever so closely to the forbidden garden.
Warn them of the thorns, terra, they are young and know no better.
I ask, be kind.
It is with the gift of choice that enchant their eyes to the blooming rose.
It is with the gift of awareness that curses their undisciplined mind.
I implore, please; be kind.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
The whispers of the wicked plague the mother,
for her children tread ever so closely to the forbidden garden.
Warn them of the thorns, terra, they are young and know no better.
I ask, be kind.
It is with the gift of choice that enchant their eyes to the blooming rose.
It is with the gift of awareness that curses their undisciplined mind.
I implore, please; be kind.