Out of the gutters running with tears,
Of the mother whose child’s blood
Clogs the storm drain, Grows —
A flower of carnage eating the iron.
It is a thing of beauty.
Red as a rose, but deadlier; reminiscent of Rouge —
Lascivious lips that create Lust.
Il es mort. C’est L’amour.
I was dead the moment I met you.
I present you with the thing of beauty.
A bouquet of flowers I pulled from the streets.
'I'll get the vase.'
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 1:53 AM UTC
Out of the gutters running with tears,
Of the mother whose child’s blood
Clogs the storm drain, Grows —
A flower of carnage eating the iron.
It is a thing of beauty.
Red as a rose, but deadlier; reminiscent of Rouge —
Lascivious lips that create Lust.
Il es mort. C’est L’amour.
I was dead the moment I met you.
I present you with the thing of beauty.
A bouquet of flowers I pulled from the streets.
'I'll get the vase.'