Blood in the garden

The garden was a jungle of exquisite floras,
resided by roses, acacias, hollies, peonies and mulleins.
In perfect harmony the blossoms sang,
humming a picturesque painting at the blessing of showers.

Rivalry sprang as the rain drops scant,
jealous mistresses the peonies succumbed.
Perilous tendrils infiltrated the silent facade,
reaping souls of innocence.

The peonies thrived,
in the reward of fresh blood.
Here marked the soar of a kingdom,
a garden of steely dominance.

Time speaks,
and guilt reverberates.
The glory withers within the blink of conscience.

The land's now an irretrievable rubble,
soiled with decayed petals,
and culprits trapped in the wines of defense.







The trail of thorns,
is leading to nowhere but a broken promise.