Oh, has the time come?
The night is cold and heavy. The ground is hard and wet. Oh, I can see her. Her hair flows, flowing red and deep.
Her features shift, her features fading, the image of a rose that has just begun to bloom. She is the rose in your garden, you say.
She leans toward you, hands outstretched into your soul.
The night is cold and heavy. It is hard and wet and wet with blood.
YOU ARE READING
End of Rush Anthology
PoetryHave you ever felt so distracted by work that you had no time to enjoy your life? You've found that every day is a blur of deadlines and stress. Every evening you come home exhausted and ready to collapse, but still have to suffer through more work...
