I hear the broken roses weep,
the entangled vines in which they keep.
A distinguished fade of the once bright petals
capture my eyes, faced with the riddles of how they came to this secluded land
The exceptional veins that are painted oh so beautifully,
prick my finger, oh so violently
The intricate details of the sentiments that no longer hold a purpose,
the meaning merely secret,
are brought to the surface.
It seems as if someone so patient,
could only paint in such complexity that captivates me.
I see the blood from my finger, drip from the rose and trickle to the thorns
and then drop to the floor.
The journey it takes is one of many under-appreciated,
the broken rose has not blossomed, yet it only took a simple negativity to surround itself so deeply.
I see the different petals, each with a new story that is painted with a detail that is so forbidden
with a paint brush that is so forgiving.
I am startled by the broken vines, that combine keeping the roses in line.
I gaze so deeply into the centre
and find a glimmer of shine,
as if the broken rose knew that I would stay,
however it hurt me anyway.
in for which I forgave,
the hole in my fingertip merely exists,
for the rose found my eye.
singing a sweet lullaby.
YOU ARE READING
Chemicals
PoetryThere are thoughts in my head laced with chemicals and dread i'll write them all down word for word, in a series of rhymes this way I wont crash and burn. (Trigger Warning)