Pink and crimson roses in a vase beside her bed -
by M. Teresa Blaylock
Stains upon her linen, and the moon is bloody red -
Silence echoes sharply but is only hers to hear -
Candle on an ancient desk illuminates her fear.
Scenes of faded glory hang in splendor on the wall;
Seconds turn to hours and her skin begins to crawl.
Bolted doors and windows keep humanity at bay -
No one comes to see her since she sent them all away.
Dreams of youth and beauty dance like demons through her head;
Life and love are calling, but she wishes she were dead.
Years of lies and secrets form the fabric of her mask;
Pleasant days await her, yet she courts the poisoned flask.
Memories of laughter have become like bitter gall -
Self-inflicted sorrow swells as Summer turns to Fall.
Hope and health have faded like the starving, withered trees;
Winter's heartless whisper floats like ice upon the breeze.
Now and then she wonders if the hurtful things she said
Hardened all the hearts of those whose love she freely bled.
Deep within the darkness of her long and empty hall,
Madness cackles loudly from the shadows, seeing all.