I sit next to you at the table
With tearful roses in hands.
I'm nothing, a meaningless fable
Of burned enigmatical lands.
The dancing of elegant lanterns.
My skin lets small venomous thorns
Draw scarlet elaborate patterns.
The goddess of love weeps and mourns.
My head with a colourful splinter
Engenders pedestrian art.
I am like a doe in the winter
Prepared to be killed by your dart.
This sharp word on thin lips unsettles
My essense and sends us a breeze.
I sit next to you and cold petals
Fall down on my porcelain knees.
Roses
© Copyright: Диана Погорелова, 2022
Свидетельство о публикации №122072605452
Свидетельство о публикации №122072605452
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