She grew guns in her backyard
and tulips in her graveyard.
Her love for corpses and
hatred for petals was unfathomable.
The mere words she carved
with the thorns, pricked her own soul,
bleeding her heart red, flowing
through her tired eyes, filling the gaps
of the wrecked bridge that linked
her graveyard and backyard.
The proses she versed sitting in
her backyard shot a number of bullets
through the parched leaves of tulips
and the broken nib scattered fragrance
of the gunpowder remained on
her wounded heart, yearning to pump.
She buried herself in the shell of bullets
but the tulips still bloom her soul
and the guns shoot on her scars,
making her wounded, each time
she bled a phrase on the parched soil
of her burnt flesh and bone.
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