The thorns are fighting their way out of your flesh. Where once your wings did spread,
now roses bloom, nourished by your blood dark red.
Tears dropping down your lovely face as you try to rip out those tendrils in vain.
And where you cannot find a thing but failure, I see your heart.
And where others call you monster,
I call you art.
Tears dropping
YOU ARE READING
The Beauty Of Poetry
PoetryHermes to be these Words The Letter my Feelings shall be The Recieving being You And the Originator being Me Please note that I am not an English native speaker. I am from Germany and therefore might make some mistakes during writing. Also, for some...
