I hear you calling from the other side,
My bed becomes a bed of roses
Where sharp thorns hide,
And soonish my burgundy blood
Oozes unceasingly - like it's doomed,
And this still ground becomes mud,
And these deceiving sheets a tomb.
Is this heaven?
I believe in it,but not in my presence there.
This meadow covered by bloody-red poppies
Lays listless in front of me,
Despite a whipping wind whose echoes
Deep I feel inside my ribcage-
Suddenly, this question gives birth to a rage,
Unstoppable, unforgettable,born from countless woes:
This is nightmare, not heaven.
But, do you dare to care
That I'm wilting like a flower
In a scorching day of summer?
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