5/12/18
Fragrant Roses, ridden with thorns, brambles and branches you try to ignore.
Soft beds of linen, harboring nails, heavy lidded looks of deceptions, pace slow as a snail.
She smells of fresh baked cookies, laced with cyanide, displays of adoration, followed by harsh looks of snide.
Vibrant as a rainbow yet harsh as a raging storm, they adore her regardless, even as she regards them with scorn.
They worship the ground at her feet, hold her hand when she falls, she dismisses their efforts, ignores all their calls.
She's only there when she needs them, but swears she is true, she only picks up the phone when she's in need, when she's blue.
It continues like this like this, the Ruler and her servants, she continues unrelenting, and refuses to repent.
I have one last inquiry so I ask of you this, if there were no followers could she ever exist?
YOU ARE READING
every rosebush has its thorns
Poetrymy life, told through a series of poems, a cautionary tale with a happy ending
