The Rose Blood Poet
The quiet succubus of the sword-pen
likes to muse every now and again
over chai-tea latte and ominous prose.
Traveling roads no one else goes.
Quietly, she taps on ebony keys,
making verse and rhyme with ease,
and in striving to make the perfect conceit
she was left with nothing but broken feet.
Babble bleeds from flowery fingertips
as thoughts whisper from crimsoned lips.
She pierces friends and foes in every act,
in every vicious word she cant take back.
Divine words on the grape vine
are nothing more than filler lines
in the many jars of bottled emotion
ready to burst into the social ocean.
Though