Saturday, January 24, 2015 2:39 AM
A flower I kept in my coat,
Old and hanged in the closet,
Of diminished dreams and voyages,
The fist that gripped my throat.
I once carried her in my hands,
A delicate rose of crimson fire,
But her thorns stung; like a satire,
And I bleed as we dance.
We swooned away ourselves,
Brittle bones like china dolls,
Porcelain made; I could still recall,
Her soft white hands all to myself.
The blood on our palms;
Her perfume on my chest,
As we lock our wounded arms,
For the final embrace.
I cannot stop myself from bleeding,
Never did I can; since then.
Although the Winter left too early,
I cringe to see the blood in my hands.