Society, Society


There lays a rose above my bed
That has long since been withered and dead
And I mourn the escape of that beauty
Into the world where it is a duty
To layer ourselves in thick petals
To conceal the harsh whine of metals
Clanging constantly in our chests
Where our hearts should but we try our best
To fill the void with clipping thorns
And shaping them into rounded norms
But is it right of us to expect
So much withering neglect
When we are all nothing like the preset
Images they instill in us?

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