Foxglove

Burnt to a crisp,
but still freezing at the core.
Shredded, bruised wings
can carry me no more.

Beaten, bloody wings
torn and blackened.
Your healing touch
drifted off; slackened.

Splattered and defaced
vandalized by your clumsy attempts at love.
In the corner
a crude sketch of a foxglove.

Locked away
hidden from the world
my sad, sad wings
slowly unfurled.

The image of a foxglove
still cut deep into my skin
haunts me every fleeting instant
and reminds me of your sin.

To call you insincere
would be foolish.
Because, my dear
what you did was simply ghoulish.

Forever branded with this flower
I shall never forget you.
My wings carry the testimony
of how you were untrue.

Burnt to a crisp,
but still freezing at the core.
Shredded, bruised wings
can carry me no more.





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