The white rose, is now red.
The blood of the innocent splashes wicked designs over the delicate petals.
The quietness of the garden, is now interrupted with screeching cries, and wails.
The scrapping of metal against bone is music for the murderous, and evil.
Each tap, each sound, makes up a melody of suffering and pain.
The life, is now death.
The music, is now silence.
The white rose, is now red.
YOU ARE READING
From the Depth of my Subconcious
PoetryTHE HIDDEN PART OF MY MINDS QUERY AND MAKE UP. THIS IS MY WHOLE SELF, THE PART OF ME THAT I HOLD DEAR. THE WORDS, THE POEMS, THE STORIES, THESE, ARE THE REFLECTIONS OF MY IMAGINATION.
