From afar, I see what looks like paradise—
Is this why I paid the price?
I endured hurricanes, rainstorms, and floods;
Yet nothing, I find, is thicker than blood.
As I approach the garden,
The waterfalls turn black,
Roses wilt,
Bushes burn,
Sand dunes lie unturned.
Still, it draws me—
Like a moth to the flame,
Like a bee to the flower.
I reach for a rose,
To admire its pose,
But scarlet-red blood ****** through my fingers,
Staining my white shirt.
Is this death—or rebirth?
Feb 6, 2025
Feb 6, 2025 at 11:40 PM UTC
From afar, I see what looks like paradise—
Is this why I paid the price?
I endured hurricanes, rainstorms, and floods;
Yet nothing, I find, is thicker than blood.
As I approach the garden,
The waterfalls turn black,
Roses wilt,
Bushes burn,
Sand dunes lie unturned.
Still, it draws me—
Like a moth to the flame,
Like a bee to the flower.
I reach for a rose,
To admire its pose,
But scarlet-red blood ****** through my fingers,
Staining my white shirt.
Is this death—or rebirth?