They bled on the roses
But no one could tell.
But the failings of the gardener
eventually gave way to revelation.
By then though it was too late
The bodies were gone.
It's too late in the night,
And carrion have devoured the impressions.
The roses were not bothered though,
For they were just flowers,
And people were just disease.
From poems, to short stories, from rants to reviews, from shit to polish, this is the un-edited thought flowing blog so drink up, and be semi-entertained.
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