Gardener‘s Prison

I thought they’d be sweet-scented blossoms, 

Fencing my yard like a shield,

But I guess that was too much to ask,

Since I planted white roses on a battlefield,

I haven’t left my house in ages,

And the windows have been blocked by green,

So all I see are my prickling cages,

On the third floor, you can see the blooms,

Deceptive beauties to the birds above,

Hiding the danger beneath that looms,

I tried to leave a couple of days back,

The roses won,

Pollen invaded my lungs leaving me to cough and hack,

Bringing up that same shade,

That cursed crimson,

The bed I lay in, the one I made