Take back your dead roses
Fit only for thorns to cut my hands,
To cut my face.
Instead, lay at my feet white roses
Whose petals I may walk upon,
Whose voice will whisper truth to me as you
Never will.
Of love’s death
Of grief and sorrow.
Now I’m set free I prefer more humble blooms.
whose faces rest soft against my bleeding cheek.
Vanessa's Blog 