I swear on this rose;
lay it on cold stone
for the earth to reclaim
and the sky to shelter.
I’m so weak and
these blues, they speak
to my withered,
soulful, messy self.
I swear on this rose;
the colours were stark
and only made sense
when the sun went down.
We are so weak;
feeble to speak
of a world that is wanting
to be itself, to be something.
