The Roses are black,
The Violets are dead.
Everything is bitter
about the road ahead.
You see fear
in everything around,
I see death runing abound.
Blood pouring down every wall,
Screams echoing through
the lonely halls
What did we do
What can we say
about all the things
that have gone astray
because the Roses are black,
and the Violets are dead.
Will we live through the hell
that lies ahead?
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I write poems and random thoughts here
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