Paint the white rose red
and bury it in your mouth,
then show a candy smile.
The claws of the beasts
may have made your back
their canvas,
but mind you that
like an hourglass,
it will be over soon.
You are going to be all right.
Not today, perhaps,
but eventually.
Just hang on a little more.
You are almost there.
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Poesia[ a poetry collection about grieving and becoming. ] I wish for the day when flowers no longer sink in water. When their eyes gaze not ignominy but proud; even dust can be seen as gold. And exhaustion feels rewarding.
