Rich white petals cup blood like a glass,

Rain dilutes blood, as the clouds pass,

Sickening sweet scent withers the roses entwined in their leaves,

They are picked away, the garden grieves,

Every tree will apocalypse the earthen bed as it falls to it's timber knees,

Leaves burn and float away like rusty butterflies in the breeze,

And the blood-cupping lillies rot and die,

So the roses drop their heads and cry.


The End

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