Rust Suicidal

Dead crows' bodies hang from the rust eroded gates,

Strangled by the frayed ropes and equally rust-tinted chains,

That hang like nooses from those once-fine gates,

Iron dragons are now orange-red,

The cold blue-silver flaked away,

The ebony skeletons of trees,

Loom with, not anger, but sadness,

They've been forgotten about and left to die, decay and rot away,

I know how they feel,

If blood flowed from root to leaf,

Darkening each ring to crimson,

Would we care about them anymore,

If each axe-stroke drew blood?

The ivy-choked stone walls of the house,

Are being slowly pulled down,

It's not quick and painless,

It's long-drawn-out torture,

Lasting forever, decades of decay,

This garden will be my suicide-ground,

I always loved to over-dramatise,

Wrists bleed upon the frozen earth,

The frosty mist is a curtain over the diamond stars,

A glittering veil,

Withered flowers, dead trees, everything else is dead,

For once in my life I will lock the door of Conformity's prison cell,

And lie there, rotting for an eternity,

The trees and flowers rot with me though,

Everything around me is dead as well,

Ironic, how I used to love my individuality.

The End

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