A rose lays upon my body.
A white blood stained rose.
My lifeless hand holds it lightly,
Against my unmoving chest.
It stands out from my black clothing,
An innocent covered in blood.
A gift it was.
From my love.
The day before my death.
Years later.
A small wind blows.
In a cemetery,
A white bloodstained rose,
Lays quietly upon a small grave.
No longer innocent,
But now the guilty,
Of a deadly past.
Sin and Murder,
Were your friends,
But now nothing more,
Than deadly enemies.
Always remembered,
Never forgotten,
For the bloodstained rose never leaves my grave.
Always there,
Never gone.
Courtesy to my friend for helping me with this poem
 moon_neko_23 · Fri Jan 26, 2007 @ 01:17am · 0 Comments |
