Watch me bleed, A fading rose losing it’s petals, Drooping silently in the vase… A hand-painted sarcophagus, too small, Too fragile, Unable to contain the scattered fragments, The filaments bearing down, lingering…
Sear my wounds, seal them With the white hot current, the love, the lust Surging through my veins in The blood-lust of this battle, The torrent of pain-soaked agony. Swathe me in linen then… Cotton and flax,
Bind me, wrap my wrists so tightly I cannot move, strap it around me, Layers and layers of shroud, Winding up my legs, teasing my thighs, Straddling my hips, molding to my breasts, Crushing my ears to my skull - Enshroud me. Enshroud me.
Watch me bleed, Red petals soaking through the linen, Spreading out in full bloom, Reminding you, yes, always reminding you Of the fragility of this love, The shattered lance driven through, The blood-soaked bindings, my gift to you.
Wrap me in secrecy, Tuck my mummified form into the tomb… Yes, tuck me away, hide me away, Enshroud me,
The captivating music of birds and the enchanting beauty of roses have, each in their own right, inspired people around the world for as long as anyone can remember. How the two combine with the challenges faced by a struggling writer in Georgia to c
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