Red as sun-lit roses in the budding-Spring,
The pavement glistens with fresh blood,
And in my heart a piercing thorn bears the moments’ sting.
In my hand is an old-withered rag of white,
And in my soul a battlefield,
Plays a ghostly reenactment of the costly fight.
–Bloody is the rag which tries to hide a guilty soul,
Yet bloodier are the hands which clean without a rag that’s whole.
Red are these hands and the only I have known,….
Are these hands with fresh-blood dripping…
Dripping, and dripping guilt and pain; scrubbing all alone.
Blue as restless oceans crashing to the shore,
Are the tears which crash to the earth,
Never enough to clean the hands of an old child-whore.
–Red as sunlit roses in the budding-Spring,
The pavement glistens with fresh blood,
And in my heart a piercing thorn bears the moments’ sting.
K. Aldaya, 8/19/14
Picture: Inspired by American McGee’s Alice: Madness Returns; Artist Unknown; http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_maly49hnQp1qkuk8lo1_500.jpg
My Soul is a Lock Without a Key 
