Red rose of thy heart's slow dying garden,she hath shown me the sharpest
I lay now among weeds and flowers deciesed in the wake of Autumn.
A spring flower hath drawn her eye and I am left to bleed and decay.
How will you wash the blood from your hands sweet beautiful rose?
How do you forget a grat love with such ease?
For she hath swept me aside as dead leaves in summer.
Chances wasted...I loathe in silnce.
Soon enough I will break down.
Soon enough I will blow far away in the winds of the storm inside.
She will be left with nothing to know me by except for the stains forever in her
You will never wash the blood away.
You will never wash your hands of me...
Copyright © Seth Medeiros | Year Posted 2007