But nobody is there to admire it.
You've trampled upon the rose we grew from barren (impossible!) ground,
Behold the macabre- three words: Meant To Be.
Traitor!
They sing of silver and pearls, douse their sorrows in the drug from the poppies,
Taste wine effortlessly even as they long for acquired minds.
Masquerade! Masquerade! the infamous court jester cries.
The queens flails her blood-stained hands around,
Fresh from the rims of her watering eyes.
"Paint the roses white!" she bellows.
When I catch hold of the truth and catch it well,
I'm going to bask in every inch of its afterglow
And when I do,
No one will believe you.
Traitor.
(Sh, don't make a sound)
Mourn silently, darling,
There's a bloodbath!
On the floor:
To where we lay our peace.
Loh Li Ling
- 1 May 2008, 10:54 AM
Labels: Traitor
