Lilac love, why's your beauty the sanguine
Rose, whose harsh thorns tear not flesh, but rattle
The soul? Tell, which Machinations pristine
Will you conjure next-oh rose-for battle?
Foe, I'll not give an inch to your long woe.
Stowed below heaven, au rose, is my hell;
Not fire, but snow packed to here by a doe.
Void of your occult, the eternal cell.
But that's just it-oh rose-my foe of
A cell shall give when I won't, it dare not
Question that! Please, pack more of your snow, love.
It chills my body; lights the hearth I sought.
This is my hell, your divinity glows.
Lilac love, steal again my sanguine rose.
Share This Poem