Painting Roses With Blood

A misty morning,

A chalky blank canvas,

The sun, the moon, the stars were lost.

Empty streets,

The silence was deafening.

The lady clad all in white

That centered the auburn garden, face hooded, her wrinkly hands held

A darling bouquet of white roses,

That she slowly tinted red.

Lay before her,

A shriveled grey corse,

Face distorted, chest till and throat split.

She grinned as she dipped her brush,

Painting roses with blood.