Blood Roses

The dead parts I cut away

With a knife I keep in my boot

For when I need a sharp metaphor


I sliced away the blackened flesh

Where naiveté and love had burned me

Sheared myself of tightly knotted scars

From years of calcified agony


I buried them beneath an ash tree

Among leaves of loam and Autumn

Where dead things belong


Imagine my surprise, when

Soon growing beneath the whispering boughs

Was a rose with petals as blue as your eyes

And thorns as sharp as your kisses


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