I am the child,
Named after the flower,
The one who fell too deep,
Thorns peircing,
My soul,
My heart,
Me.
One day,
Digging the grave,
My sleeves rolled up .
You once had asked me,
"Why are there scars
on your wrists?"
I remember i told you,
"I once fell in a bush of roses,
I had fallen so far,
the thorns tore me apart.
Bit by bit.
Cut away all my wrongs,
Cut away the pain.
I had fallen,
And no one would help me up,
I was stuck,
As my own thorns tore me,
I hadn't known it then,
But they had started inside,
And cut their way out.
I watched painfully,
As my blood,
Painted these perfect white roses
Red,
Darker than any shade
I had seen before,
Such a dark crimson red.
I was named after the flower
The beautiful rose,
Though it was my own thorns
That were my undoing,
My own thoughts,
That were my killer."
One day,
As you were burying me,
Filling my grave,
Your tears wiped away,
The dark crimson Red,
And left the perfect white roses,
Clean again.
YOU ARE READING
Clouds of Thought
PoetryPoetry is beautiful. Poetry isn't always clear. Poetry can be dark, or light, depending how you feel. Poetry derives from people's innermost thoughts and feelings, formed when one is Lost in the Clouds of Thought. Spiritual ~ #37 Poetry ~ #112
