She is slowly beginning to die Like a flower right after its bloom She cannot help but wonder why They would fill her with such gloom
Her body is growing weak Like a flower as it begins to wilt Its inability to support is bleak Her body cannot take the pain; this was not why it was built
Her finger nails, painted black Like the tips of the dying leaves She has been told she cannot go back And this, she does believes
She sits there solemn As she writes this deathly poem She finds this a problem Like the dying flowers, she has no one
xXRawr-GirrXx · Mon Jan 19, 2009 @ 09:08pm · 0 Comments |