My bed of roses

Roses red, black white and silver,

Form a funeral-wreath shaped nest,

As I slip deeper into my sorrows, I slip deeper into the nest,

The rose's thorns trace scars onto my skin,

They draw beads of pretty crimson blood from me,

The longer I lay there,

The further I drift away,

The perfume of the roses drugging me to a state of calmness,

The silken and velvety  petals and leaves carress me,

So that my death is comfortable,

The scars welt and bruise,

No stitches can repair,

My bed of roses is my death bed,

My ashes are already scattered among the petals,

They cup the silver-grey, death-fairy-dust,

And devour parts of me,

Parts I can never get back,

But why would I want to retrieve them?

The End

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