The rise and the fall
Of the rose petals in a storm
Left to defend with only thorns
And already more than halfway gone
The scent carries on the wind
Of this Rose, I'm guardian
Guarding what is left
Of a beauty left in the past...
Because although they say true beauty never dies
A rose wasn't built to last
dark smoke clouding around me, so thick my eyes can't push through it. My hands, feeling my surroundings grasp onto a rose, pricking my finger with its thorns, a drop of light blood appears. Twirling it between my fingers i realize there is light within the darkness.
you are unloved,
undissolved in a world you
watch through glass
and once again,
you are nine; in the bathroom,
on that floor, as
the blue tiled walls reflect,
over and over and
you wish that
you never truly woke up, from
the strange mix of dream
and reality you
succumbed to long ago,
like a princess, at
wrapped in thorns
you'd never have had to pack
that sleepover bag every time
he made you cry,
even as the tv still played
cartoons, snot still
ran, and you still
bled (and left).
On a swing of deadened wood she would
Swing, holding upon these slender ropes of thorn.
Piercing onto flesh, but always held on as
Though to fall, but tears bleed from this motion.
Back and forth, white became red as a head
Slumped forward and motions carried on as hand frim.
This dead wood sat upon a rope of thorns
Motioning the seeping tide that with each gesture flowed.
Grasping fingers ridged as these swings, each
With heads slumped, bleed a little and swung always evermore .