These red tears run down my wrists, falling onto a forgotten floor, laying in a pool of lost hope.
by Anne Christian
And it could have been a maddened angel who stole the virgins fate. No one will ever know, because no one ever cared.
And these red petals will continue to fill my outstretched palms, the thorns my back.
And I will transcend into oblivion, nothing more than an evaportaing mist.