Severed sutures made of thorns constrict my heart,
Which slowly decays from the corrosive toxicity,
Exposing the valves to the cold blow of solemn embrace..
*
A scent that had once been pleasant violates my lungs,
Regretting the allure of ceasing my loneliness..
*
What had once filled a void now tears a flesh wound,
Wilting inside before it could bloom,
The curse of bearing that poison rose.
About the Creator
Sincerely Rob
Escaping to the past, envisioning the future while stuck in the present
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Comments (1)
Oh, that's the Poison Rose's Curse I think. Well done, I love this. Thanks for sharing :) Rob!