Mother is asleep in her garden,


I scream that your roses are not red anymore,


They appear discolored at your nurturing,


You never did mind the coddling of your dying house,


And so I tend to your crumbling heaven,


If I had given you eyes,

you would tear out the emeralds at your expense,


My loveless dreamer,

Rotting at my bedside,


I am too tired to bury you again,


I imitate your death,

And keep the hell I fell in love with
© cankered cupid