Tired of all,
When yearning to crawl
Along fields sprayed with your tears.
Here is beauty,
And there is scenery
For me to weep over, in view of your slumber.
Fights me off,
Intrudes upon my light,
The comfort I’ve aimed to grant.
I have placed roses for you to wield
Like swords in this very field,
To cast fire along the presence of yellow,
So that disease would not spark in the shallow
Warmth of light.
What comfort would now offer itself
Upon your Hellishly heated form
That bleeds a reality into the debris, that cakes beneath your feet?
You’ll die, comfortably
With a blade to your wrists.
You’ll feast upon your own blood
With a festering appetite.
Deny me, as you’d like,
I’ll still be there, to offer you light.