I collect roses from up in her head
That is my sacred duty
Botanical gardens of thorn that I tread
To seek forgotten beauty
Stealing bouquets to lay under her bed
That she may find in the morning
She wonders why my hands are bloodied and red
I tell her, "My love, I've been working."
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC