The sharpness of a branch Is less painful than your thorns. The beauty of your flower, simply bloodied rose. That lovely shade of red, Obvious not your own. Break me thin as your leaf, My soil remains so firm. Disaster strikes to your ground, leaves mine be. And now you've turned your reddened beauty a wilting brown, thickened by your poison. Wilting without your truth, your thorns no longer risen.
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