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What Makes Roses Red

This Love,
It’s all you’ll get from me,
Low and ancient,
Nothing but teeth.
To pluck your petals and finally,
Drag you down to set you free,
This night, it’s all you see and breathe,
Huge and whole,
Nothing but teeth.
 
I turned your eyes to diamonds,
And left your skin to set,
I tasted every inch of you and deified what was left.
With hollow lust, an empty thrust,
You turned your tongue and said;
‘Beneath this tree, please sing to me,
You are what makes roses red.’
 
Tonight,
I make the world grow small,
Collected breath,
An endless fall.
To turn the autumn leaves to dust,
You still say no, I know I must,
Tonight, you are the earth and all,
A shallow grave,
An endless fall.
 
A sin upon the summit,
A fear behind the eyes,
I buried you in brutal truth and swallowed all your lies.
When all is done, the rising sun,
Abides to hear me sing;
'Cherish what I’ve made of you,
A dead and sacred thing.'

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