Of Rusted Roses

Her heart is a garden

where madness grows

in horizontal rows of

paper mâché suffering.

easily to tear

easily to rip like tissue paper

the translucent mist

claps with thunder

against the cold.

the wanderers

of take and take

their palms break promises

and fists knock out

teeth like punching bags,

all while trying to

cross the path painted

with a scarlet electric shock

only to find a dead end of

wilted flower petals.


2 thoughts on “Of Rusted Roses”

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