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Rose

By
The thorns of the rose:
So cruel with their sharp stabs
Of relentless pain.
All it takes is a single
Vicious prick
To slide into the
Dark oblivion of
Not feeling.
Inside this world
No pain exsists,
And the only sights and sounds
Are the incessant dripping of
Your beautiful crimson blood
To the ground and he
Red, red petals of the rose,
Symbol of this bitter love,
Coming to rest softly on the cold, hard floor.





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