Whose dead roses is that? I think I know,
It's owner is quite angry though.
She was cross like a dark potato,
I watch her pace. I cry hello.
She gives her dead roses a shake,
And screams I've made a big mistake.
The only other sounds the break,
Of distant waves and birds awake.
The dead Roses is black, dried up, and deep,
but she has promises to keep,
Tormented with nightmare she never sleeps.
Revenge is a promise a girl should keep.
She rises from her cursed bed,
With thoughts of violence in her head,
A flash of rage and she sees red.
Without a pause, I turned and fled.
By - Rosalee Heart Stanford
Oringal poem by Rosalee
YOU ARE READING
Some poems <3
PoetryAll of these poems are made by me, Rosalee Stanford, please do not say it is your own poems.
