Her Blues

Her garden of red roses grows
From the bloodiest of wounds
Chipping, chipping, chipping
Into decaying oblivion,
The blood drips
As she cuts her veins open
For the World to read
In the lines of a poem
Written by the warmest blood
Pumping through her heart beat
Fresh with fear and all emotions
Crawling into the skin of pain
She lets the blood be shed
After all, controlling Time’s
Squeaky wheels
And loose tracks
She will have learned
Absolutely nothing new
Her garden of red roses
Will not grow
The bloodiest of wounds

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