Rotting flowers can still smell sweet,

When I’m surrounded by graves,

Desperate to taste something pure.

Starving for some sense of humanity.

Thorns can still feel soft,

When they were the only bed I’ve known,

When the bittersweet stench of your bloom,

Has stained my eyes in a bloody haze.

I’m to weak to feel rage anymore,

And it felt good to be held, for once,

If only by cold metal bars,

If only by a cage I was too scared to break.

I can only taste blood,

Only smell your decay,

It fills my throat,

On the verge of collapse.

All I can bear is to cry,

Because it all used to feel so good.

It once felt sweet,

To be drowning in a red,

Worse than wine,

And twice as sour.