This prose is soaked in tears
It is the product
Of minds that never blink
Wounds that never heal

People that have betrayed
Lovers that have quarreled
Childhoods gone wrong
The first blossoms of red.

These pretty swaying words
In the winds of the storm
Standing still
Never breaking

Until they are broken clean
From their roots.
March on through the fields
Covered in dead blooms

New opportunities seen
And tunneled through black ink.