You died.

Yesterday in the garden, I watched

you

fall.

Your deep red blood soaked the ground, feeding the flowers with what was left of your

life.
The sun went out and I cried out for salvation,

as if God could save me.
Evil hues filled the sudden night and I was silenced with cold fingers tracing my spine.
Slowly I heard a sword slide out of its sheath and pierce my frantically beating heart.
My blood poured from my chest as I laid beside your corpse, turning the

flower petals


red.

As the old poem goes:

Roses are red.


Violets are blue.

I am now dead.


And so



are




you.