Roses are turning black.
Sick of taking flak.
Potmarked wretched vile skin.
Universe married to ruin.
Sedative won’t be enough for the pauper is the crutch.
Rest on scales that are unfairly weighted.
Bring forth this yob of the fated.
Roses are turning black.
Sick of taking flak.
Potmarked wretched vile skin.
Universe married to ruin.
Wind the lengths of rope around some tender flesh.
Source of a point that is corrupted.
Independence has been disrupted.
Roses are turning black.
Sick of taking flak.
Potmarked wretched vile skin.
Universe married to ruin.
Weasels line the sides of streets.
Insects scurry just beneath.
Belief is lost and men are cruel.
Upon this wood we scrawl a duel.
Commanding that the readers war.
If one is alone then none will propser.
But if two fight against themselves,
Then every act will be compelled.
Roses are turning black.
Sick of taking flak.
Pockmarked wretched vile skin.
Universe married to ruin.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 