Bed of Roses
If your mind speaks murder
then your tongue is a knife
etching lies in everyone's face
and gashing the faceless
No remorse
No heart
Broken bones and roses
grow in fields and young
boys wield weapons and oppose
peace and all that can heal
and they themselves are victims
to your words
You speak
but you speak with dagger
and arrow
and emptiness...
There lies the throne of the empress
adorned with thorn and ivy
where her sword stands strong
and her love is plenty
She shines mirrors above your head
and blocks out night and day
She lets your words ricochet
until you have fallen from grief
and the sorrows that you impose
buried in beds of roses
broken bones and all
Oh, how the children sing
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