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The Rose

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The thorns develop beneath my skin,
Enveloped, lost within.
The vines grow up my cold dry leg,
Only to be caught whimpering.
The leaves decay to become dry,
My body aches as my dead soul cries.
You left me cold, alone, only to weep,
I often find myself losing sleep.
Love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage,
Sometimes I pray pain is merely a stage.
And if these fears don’t leave me alone,
Tears are the result in this melancholy tone.
Petals die dancing free,
I need a locket to match my key.
The rose has life to be torn apart,
Limb by limb and it’ll soon be gone.
This beauty will now wilt away,
But it’s not over for me now, no way.
The Rose was just the shield to what will be.





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