Where the forest grows thick, she softens with dreams
Pretty poetry of innocent things
The roses blooming, the summer rain
But inside she knows a vast pain
The agony of knowing and being and seeing
Of being reborn into darkness
Smothering growth, fragrant decay
She knows not the suffering of her mother, the silence of father
Death is growing like a white rose
Stained with the blood of a past she would like to murder.
No comments:
Post a Comment