You’re honest and loyal.
A content heart in this rage.
I forget how sweet you are when all I hear are your echos
Now, you’re merely a figment of my imagination.
A single gossamer thread that keeps me tethered to this earth.
But I’m still this empty shell. A ghost.
The aftermath of chaos and greed.
The substance to my autobiography
My blood was the ink to my life story, that soon faded away in meaning.
The story is stained with hatred and abuse
And no flowers can grow from it.
If anything, flowers are stolen of their innocence in my story.
And all flowers burn up and die.
When the ashes of innocence disappear, are they replaced by diamonds instead?
When the diamonds shatter so do the promises kept by the hopeless. Never the hopeful.
And the promises cut up their feet as they tiptoe around like walking on eggshells.
That’s when the crimson blood escapes the pathways of life that lead to the heart.
And like ink I write in blood my life. The end.