Sitting at the table
She appeared as a boquet
Of roses, ****** red.
He can smell her scent
Admire the beauty
Brush his hand upon her head.
Although she blooms
And her stems are ripe
She feeds on only pain.
So on this flower,
Thorns cut smart,
And through his soul they slain.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
Sitting at the table
She appeared as a boquet
Of roses, ****** red.
He can smell her scent
Admire the beauty
Brush his hand upon her head.
Although she blooms
And her stems are ripe
She feeds on only pain.
So on this flower,
Thorns cut smart,
And through his soul they slain.
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